Set the World on Fire
by Cora709
Summary: For six months Santana has been living in New York City with Kurt and Rachel, but now Brittany has received her diploma and is finally coming to join them. Can new relationships accommodate old ones? And can the past ever really be recaptured?
1. Chapter 1

Author's note - just want to point out that I'm posting **three chapters **for this first installment. It was supposed to be one, but it grew to be so massive that I decided to split it up. I still think of it as one unit, though.

This fic is sort of my vision of what I wanted the Glee spin-off to be like. Since we now know that's not going to happen, and since it's not clear whether the characters are going to NYC or not, I decided to take a stab at my own version. It's primarily a Brittana fic, but the Kurt/Santana/Rachel trio is also very important to me. (And I'll never forgive the show for not capitalizing on the comedy potential in those 3 playing off each other.)

I've spent an enormous amount of time on this already, so please review if you can, because I'm curious to know how many people would even want to see it continue. I realize the concept and this particular grouping of characters isn't exactly the norm, so I hope I'm not the only one who likes the idea of them together.

Thanks so much for reading!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Six months. That was how long it had been. Six months, two weeks, and four days since she'd last seen Brittany. Six months, two weeks, four days, and... Santana glanced at the clock as she plumped up the couch cushions one more time. Five hours. Not that she was counting.

Because she was an adult now, she reminded herself for what felt like the hundredth time today. A mature, independent woman who was living on her own in the big city, or _sort of_ on her own anyway, and she needed that to be obvious to Brittany when she got here. To seem too eager or too worried about appearances would be to screw up the agreement they'd made regarding their relationship when this visit had been planned, the agreement to take things slow, one day at a time. Tentatively. Casually. _Be casual_, _damn it_, she commanded herself, wringing her hands.

On a last-minute check of the living room, she placed an empty vase in the center of the coffee table, then stepped back and examined it with a critical eye. She switched it to an end table instead and walked to the other side of the room, looking at it from that angle. Then she realized she was behaving like a lunatic and that nobody would give a damn where the vase was, especially since the flowers weren't even here yet. (But just in case, she moved it back to the coffee table. _Casually_.)

Now she stood still and looked around the small living room of the apartment, forcing herself to take a deep breath to steady her nerves. It was almost time. Brittany could be here any minute now. After an entire day of getting things ready, cleaning the place, trying to make it look less small and unimpressive than it really was, making sure every last detail was perfect... it was finally time.

Unable to resist the urge any longer, she went to the front window and looked down four stories into the street below, checking for the station wagon that dorky jazz band guy drove. Jeff. Or John. Jasper? Something like that. She'd never really bothered to learn their names. But apparently Jeff or John or whatever had been headed to New York at the same time as Brittany, and so being the chivalrous type of nerd that he was, he'd offered to bring her along if she helped pay for gas and promised not to make him listen to Ke$ha. Santana resolutely quenched the idea that the guy had had some ulterior motive in suggesting this road trip. That was the old her, the possessive, insecure Santana. Not the new and improved grown-up.

Because it wasn't like she had any right to be jealous, anyway. They weren't together. Not in that sense, not anymore. In fact, they'd both been in other relationships during the past half a year they'd been apart. As for what would happen now, now that Brittany had earned her diploma after an extra semester at McKinley and was finally arriving in the city... she had no idea. She didn't even know for sure if she was staying, or if it was just a visit. They'd agreed that it was a trial run. That was why Santana had made up the sofa bed in the living room yesterday, even though it had broken her heart just a little bit to know they'd be sleeping in separate rooms. But still, she knew it was the smart way to go. They had so much catching up to do. Six months was a long time to be apart. If she was honest with herself, sometimes it felt more like six years.

It was just that so much had happened. Beginning, of course, with the confusing, melancholy way the two of them had parted. Even now, she didn't know quite what to make of their last face-to-face conversation. She started to play it back in her head again, but before she could make any progress, she heard a distant echo of voices, and then footsteps clomping up the stairs. She tensed for a second, hopeful. Had she missed the car? But the voices became clearer as they moved down the hallway. And unfortunately, these two in particular were all too familiar. It was just _them_. Shit. She'd been hoping Brittany would get here first, so they could have at least a few minutes to themselves. But of course not. Not with her luck.

Now the voices were approaching the door, still muffled, but loud and argumentative.

"Kurt, it's not that I'm denying your considerable expertise on the subject, it's just that _clearly _Mandy Patinkin's most memorable role was Che in the original run of Evita. It's an iconic part."

"I'm not going to debate your obviously clichéd definition of iconic, but Sunday in the Park with George is without a doubt his superior performance. The character's name is in the title. What more do you want?"

"He won a Tony for Evita! How can you argue with that?"

"Oh Rachel," Kurt said in a breezy, smug way as the door swung open. "Your opinions are downright adorable in their wrongness." They moved from the front entryway into the living room, and noticing her standing by the window and staring at them with badly suppressed irritation, Kurt added, "Let's ask Santana."

She pounced on this opportunity with a lethal glint in her eyes. "You know what, that is a super idea. Let's ask Santana. Because I'm guessing you two scenery-chewers are talking about something Broadway-related, right?" She ambled toward them with her arms crossed, enjoying the chance to blow off some steam. "Like for example which role was slightly gayer than the other? Or maybe which musical would be least likely to make an audience want to stab Q-tips doused with gasoline into their ears, and then light them on fire just to make it stop? Well let me break it down for you, Lucy and Ethel, because it turns out you're right, I _can _settle this debate for you. Whatever piece of obscure theater lameness it is that you're arguing about? The answer is, they _both _sucked. So yayyyy, you both win, and now you can shut up about it!"

Rachel rolled her eyes, unbuttoning her coat in a weary manner as she waited out the storm. "I take it Brittany isn't here yet?"

Santana drew in a deep breath to recover from her rant. As always, she felt a little better afterwards. She moved back over toward the window. "It's only ten after five. She said between five and six."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not watching the clock," Kurt tossed off in a casual manner, receiving a glare in response.

She checked the street again. Still nothing. Biting her lip, she forced down a sigh of impatience. Then, looking around the room, her eye snagged on the empty vase. "Rachel, where are the flowers?"

In the middle of hanging her coat up in the front closet, Rachel's hand froze. "Oh no," she said in a small voice.

Santana came back toward her, already livid. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. The one thing I asked you to do!"

"Look, I can explain!" she said, backing up to put some distance between them. "It's a funny story, really. I was on my way to the florist's when I passed a group of Catholic schoolgirls in the park, singing Rihanna songs to their boyfriends from the top of a picnic table. They definitely had potential, but their breathing was all wrong, and their dancing wasn't so much sexy as... pornographic. So, being a champion of the arts like I am, I stopped to give them some pointers. Anyway, one thing led to another, and to make a long story short..."

"Too late," Kurt muttered.

"I ended up doing some of the songs myself," she went on. "And I think they really appreciated the lesson. It's true, they stuck gum on my purse, and I think one of them may have called me something bad in Chinese. But later, when they think back on it, I'm confident my advice will sink in and make a difference in their lives." She finished up with an expression of beatific self-sacrifice. You could practically see the halo. "After all, Santana, what's more important? A bouquet of flowers that'll just wilt and die, or the opportunity to share my talent with a new generation of performers?"

Santana continued to stare at her in baffled outrage for a few more seconds, and then she lunged. With cat-like quickness Kurt caught her around the waist to hold her back, just as Rachel ducked away and darted behind the couch to use it as a barricade. It was like a perfectly choreographed ballet they'd enacted countless times.

"I wonder how you're gonna like performing without teeth, Saint Rihanna, because I am about to get _all up _in your face!" But Kurt kept a firm grip on her. Due to these frequent outbursts, his upper body strength was increasing. It was a strange way to build muscle tone, but effective.

"All right, all right!" Rachel held her hands up in a placating gesture. "I'll go back to the florist now, okay? Will that make you happy?"

"No, it won't make me happy, because they're closed, you idiot! I told you they closed at five."

"Santana..." Rachel shut her eyes briefly, resting her hands on the back of the couch. "I'm sorry. I got distracted. I don't know what else to say!"

She felt the venom drain out of her, to be replaced by simple disappointment. "You are unbelievable, you know that?"

Kurt tentatively dropped his arms, staying close just in case things escalated again. "To be fair," he said, "while I agree that Rachel's self-centeredness is astronomical, is this really any worse than the time we missed the Jersey Shore marathon because _someone _stole the cable money and bought forty dollar nail polish?"

Damn it, why did he have to bring that up? Santana avoided eye contact with them both as she smoothed her rumpled shirt down, a little sheepish now, but trying to maintain her dignity. "How many times do I have to apologize for that?

"You _never _apologized for that," Rachel couldn't help pointing out.

"It was more of a rhetorical question," she muttered, examining her nails, which still looked amazing. That polish was so worth it.

"My point is," Kurt went on, "We've all done things we're not proud of."

"I've got it!" Rachel exclaimed now, her face lighting up with an idea. "I'll cook dinner for everyone. To make up for the flowers. Brittany would like that, right?" And without waiting for an answer, she headed into the kitchen, as if fleeing the scene of the crime.

"We're not eating any of your vegan shit!" Santana called after her. And in a strange way, she got a thrill just from saying the word "we" in relation to herself and Brittany. It had been so long. _We're going to be a 'we' again_, she realized. At least for a little while. And if things worked out, maybe longer.

But it was dangerous to think that far ahead, so she stopped herself. The mature thing to do, she reminded herself again, was to take it one day at a time. She turned her attention back to the window. The street below was empty in a way it hardly ever was, almost as if it was mocking her. She noticed Kurt out of the corner of her eye still hanging around, and prayed he would retreat to his room, or go keep Rachel company in the kitchen and leave her the hell alone. But no such luck. Instead he pulled out a fresh copy of the New York Times, settling down on the couch and flipping on the lamp beside it.

This ostentatious reading of the newspaper was one of his new habits, and she halfway suspected he did it on purpose in a way best suited to annoy her. First he unfolded the thing and shook it out, the crackle of the sheets filling the silence of the room and making her cringe, especially since her nerves were already on edge. Then he held it out at arms' length, turned his nose up, crossed his legs prissily, and stared at it. All he needed was a pipe and a velvet smoking jacket to complete the picture. He even turned the pages in a showy way. In the past she'd wondered why he didn't just read it online like everyone else who wasn't senile yet, but now she realized it was because the online edition wouldn't give him such a perfect opportunity to behave like a snooty asshat.

"Are you actually even reading that?" she finally sneered, when there was still no sign of the car below and she couldn't take it any longer. "Or are you just trying to become the most boring performance artist in the history of time?"

He turned another page, and without acknowledging her remark, asked, "Why don't you just call her and see how close she is?"

She looked away and waited a few seconds before answering. "I've already called her six times. I don't want to seem paranoid."

Kurt made no response to this, though somehow he managed to turn even silence into sardonic judgment.

Knowing she shouldn't, she checked the clock again. 5:23. Where the hell was she? Maybe they'd stopped to eat dinner somewhere. Maybe they would bring take-out for everyone. That would serve Rachel right, if no one touched her meal. It would probably suck anyway. Most of her food looked like raw sewage and didn't smell much better.

By now it was dark enough outside that Santana could see her own image in the glass of the window, the reflection cast by the lamp behind her. What she saw provided one more source of anxiety. "Kurt," she said with a sense of urgency, getting up and standing in front of him. "My hair's doing that thing again."

He glanced up at her. "I can see that. Probably happened when you launched yourself at Rachel." He went back to reading.

"Well? Fix it!"

He sighed heavily and lowered the paper. "Why do I always have to be the one to fix it?"

"_Because_. That's what you're here for. You're like, my fairy godbrother. Now get off your ass and use your magic wand on me." She headed toward the bathroom and then stopped, amused at herself. "Is it just me, or does that sound so wanky?"

With obvious reluctance, he stood and followed her. "It does when _you _say it."

In the tiny bathroom, she hopped up onto the sink counter. While Kurt rummaged around in a drawer for whatever it was he needed to restore her to hotness, she examined her surroundings critically, trying to see it through a newcomer's eyes. Had it always been this drab and depressing? How had she gotten used to this?

"We should get a new shower curtain."

"What's wrong with it?" He squeezed a dollop of gel into his hand and began working it into her hair.

"It's _gray_. It looks like a cast-off from a Soviet orphanage. God only knows what kind of microbes are breeding in it. I mean, that Kurt Cobain look-alike you brought home last weekend? I'm pretty sure it was the first time in months he'd been exposed to indoor plumbing."

"Brittany is not coming to New York to see our shower curtain, Santana. She's coming to see you. Hold your head straight."

"I know that." She angled her chin up, trying to keep it level so he could work his magic. "I just... want things to be nice." In a quieter voice that she hoped didn't sound too pathetic, she added, "I really want her to like it here."

Kurt's expression softened, and he seemed on the verge of saying something reassuring, but before he could manage it, they heard quick footsteps coming down the hall. Rachel appeared in the doorway, her lips compressed in a thin line. She wrung her hands nervously against the hideous frilly apron she wore. Her entire demeanor indicated a person who had been preparing for a role her entire life, but who now at the last minute had developed unaccountable stage fright. Either that, or she just really needed to pee. They stared at her, waiting.

"What?" Kurt finally demanded, when she still hadn't said anything.

"Just... don't freak out, Santana. Try to stay calm. Deep breaths."

Naturally, these words caused her heart to start pounding and a sickening jolt to pass through her entire body. "What are you talking about?"

"Your phone battery must be dead," Rachel continued. "They've been trying to call you. I'm not exactly sure how they got my new number... maybe..."

"Rachel, just say it!" Kurt snapped. Santana was grateful, because she wasn't sure she could have spoken at all.

Stepping forward into the already crowded bathroom, Rachel spoke directly to Santana. "They had car trouble. Brittany and John. They're staying at a motel in New Jersey."

She waited, but that seemed to be all. "So she's okay?"

"Of course she is, she's fine. It's just that... she won't be here tonight. I knew you'd be upset."

Santana took a deep breath and let it out, closing her eyes for a second in relief. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to hug Rachel or throttle her.

"Jesus H. Christ, Debbie Downer!" Kurt said. "You don't preface an announcement about car trouble with the words '_Try to stay calm_.'"

"Well, I'm sorry," she said defensively. "I'm not used to delivering bad news. People usually want me to deliver good news. Sometimes through song."

While they were sniping at each other, Santana let the full meaning of the information sink in, and now she felt herself transition from a state of relief to one of simple disappointment. Brittany wasn't coming. After an entire day of waiting, after hours spent getting everything ready... she wasn't coming at all. Suddenly all the excitement and nervous tension of the day drained away from her, and she felt exhausted.

Rachel added, "She said she'll almost definitely be here tomorrow, as soon as they can get the car fixed. And she said to tell you she's sorry. And to charge your phone."

"Yeah. Whatever. I mean, it's no big deal," Santana said unconvincingly. "It's just one more day, right?" She tried not to let them see how deflated she felt. She slid down off the sink and turned around, pretending to be occupied with putting the gel back in the medicine cabinet, but in the mirror she could see the two of them exchange concerned glances behind her back, and she _hated _that. They looked like the parents of an unpredictable toddler wondering whether to expect a tantrum.

Kurt held up a styling brush, questioningly. "Do you still want me to..."

"No," she said, pushing past him into the hall. "Forget it. It doesn't matter." She headed toward her tiny cell of a bedroom, wanting only to be left alone.

"You know," Rachel's voice followed her, in a tone that indicated she was trying to cheer her up. "It's a good thing I didn't get the flowers after all. They might have been dead by the time she got here."

Not bothering to give any kind of response to this, she shut her door to the sound of Kurt hissing in a stage whisper, "_Really_, Rachel?"

Now, finally, she was alone. She stood against the door for a few seconds, reminding herself like she'd been doing all day that she was an _adult_. An adult didn't retreat to her bedroom and sulk when she got disappointing news. An adult didn't curl up in a self-pitying ball on her bed, the way she was doing now. An adult most certainly didn't bury her head in the pile of pillows and try desperately not to cry, torturing herself with thoughts of the one person she longed to see and touch more than anyone else in the world, and whom she was irrationally afraid that fate or God or simply indifferent chance was going to keep from her, forever. A true adult wouldn't do any of those things.

Then what would they do in this situation? she wondered. The mature thing. The rational thing. Which would be to get up and turn some lights on, first, so that the lurid neon glow of the pizza place across the street wasn't the only thing illuminating the room. Then, probably, to put her phone on the charger. And then maybe to go and help with dinner. And after all that, to go to bed early and get some sleep, so that she could get up and live this entire day over again tomorrow, hopefully with a better outcome.

She considered this course of action. She almost even convinced herself to do it. Then, instead, she grabbed her iPod, kicked off her shoes, and pulled the covers up and all the way over her head, giving in to the tears. _ Fuck it_. Tomorrow, she would seriously start acting like an adult. When Brittany got here, for sure. No doubt about it. But just for tonight, she was more than okay with still being a teenager.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It had been late August when she'd first arrived in the city. Because Brittany had already left to spend the summer with her grandparents in June, and because their parting had been on such ambiguous terms, there didn't seem to be much point in hanging around Lima. She'd been anxious to follow through with her spontaneous decision not to attend any of the decent colleges she'd been accepted at, the ones her parents had made her apply to, but instead to throw caution to the wind, move to New York, take classes at a community college, and hope that life had something amazing in store for her.

Not that she would have ever put it into words like that, because she knew how hopelessly cheesy and cliché it would sound. Like something Berry would come up with. And speaking of Rachel, of course she'd known (as did everyone within a fifty mile radius, it seemed) that the two NYADA hopefuls had been accepted and would be living in the city as well. But that had had nothing to do with her own decision. Quite the opposite, in fact. She'd thought long and hard about whether she wanted to risk being contaminated by their loserdom in her first flush of post-high school independence. But then, she'd reasoned, New York was a city of eight million people. What were the chances that she would even run into them?

She'd stepped outside JFK airport into a muggy, suffocating summer day, the stench of car exhaust and diesel fumes enough to make her queasy. Determined to act like she knew what she was doing, she'd waited in line for a taxi (though she'd been prepared to shove old ladies out of the way if it had come to that.) When she finally got into a car and handed the driver the scrap of paper with her cousin's address in Washington Heights, she'd had her first sense that something was amiss. The Pakistani driver had read the address, craned his head back to scan her expensive wardrobe, then looked at the paper again. "You are sure this is where you want to go?"

"_Yeah_, I'm sure, Mohammed," she said in her best bitchy manner, wanting him to know that he couldn't take advantage of her naivety just because she was from out of town. He'd held up his hands in amused surrender and started driving.

The ride seemed to last forever, though it couldn't have been more than half an hour. When he finally did pull to a stop, however, she'd remained in her seat, waiting for him to continue. But he didn't.

"I don't think this is the right place," she'd eventually prompted him.

"Oh, it is the right place." He seemed to be enjoying this. "Fifty-eight dollars, please. Unless you would like to be going somewhere else?"

But the price of the fare was staggering to her, and she knew she couldn't afford to double it. So she'd forced herself to get out, hauling all her bags with her. She'd found herself standing on a broken sidewalk outside a chain link fence, gazing up at a row of dilapidated concrete high-rise towers, at least thirty stories high. _Holy sweet hell_, she'd realized with a sense of dismay. _These are the actual projects. _

Laundry flapped forlornly from many of the balconies. Some of the windows were patched with tape, and many more of them were open, despite the fact that it was at least ninety degrees out. Everything it was possible for a human arm to reach was covered in scrawls of colorful, obscene graffiti. Muffled bass seemed to come from every direction at once, rap conflicting with boleros, reggae attempting to drown out merengue . The buildings loomed up with such massive, intimidating presence that she felt dwarfed by them.

She took a dizzy step backward and felt something crunch under her heel. Looking down, she discovered it was a hypodermic syringe. Immediately she turned around to get back in the taxi, thinking _Screw the money, I'll pay him in jewelry_. But the car had already pulled away and was halfway down the street. For a brief instant she'd considered running after it, losing every last shred of dignity she'd ever possessed. Instead, feeling like she was being watched, she gathered her luggage together, took a deep breath, and tried to figure out which of the buildings was the one she was looking for.

Somehow, through a combination of avoiding eye contact but also keeping her head high and not acting afraid, she'd managed to find the right building, the right floor, the right apartment. By the time she reached the door her knees were shaking, her heart was in her throat, and she'd had to clamp her teeth together to keep herself from responding to the taunts and catcalls that had been directed at her in multiple languages, but she'd made it. She was even a little proud of herself.

She'd pounded on the dented metal door for a while, then, when there was no response, she dug through her purse for the key her cousin Ricky had mailed to her in case he wasn't home. Inside the apartment, she tried to convince herself that it wasn't that bad. Okay, so it smelled like a boys' locker room and it was stifling, and there was a layer of grit under her shoes that felt like some kind of powder, and she kept seeing movement out of the corner of her eye that she suspected was roaches... but the important thing was that she was here. She was in New York City. Life as an out and proud lesbian could really begin now. Right?

On that first night, her cousin had never come home. She'd tried calling him, but the number he'd given her apparently no longer belonged to him. The window air conditioning unit, when she tried to turn it on, emitted a screeching sound and a puff of warm air that smelled like motor oil, then began to rattle so loudly that she turned it back off. The TV worked, but it was stuck on Turner Classic Movies, and she couldn't find a remote control anywhere. So she was forced to endure one of those black and white screwball comedies from the forties where the leads talk a million miles a minute and never shut up. Later, when she tried to take a shower, she discovered that the warm water lasted for exactly three minutes and then turned frigid.

As it got dark, the volume outside the walls of the apartment seemed to increase by the hour. The traffic noise and sirens played havoc on her already raw nerves, and the drone of other people's stereos and TVs seemed to come from every direction. There was what sounded like a dog fight in progress somewhere down below her 17th story window, but it was too dark to tell for sure. In one of the other apartments on the floor, a man and woman began shrieking at each other in a language she couldn't decipher, and a baby (theirs? or someone else's?) cried for what seemed like hours. She turned the TV up to drown it all out, but now the movie was The Music Man, and somehow it made her homesick for Lima.

She thought about trying to order pizza, but she didn't know whether they would deliver to the door, and the prospect of going back down to the lobby was too intimidating. She didn't have much appetite anyway. So she ended up eating a bowl of stale Lucky Charms for dinner, without milk. The cereal reminded her of Brittany, and of the fact that she was supposed to call her. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She knew the sound of Brittany's voice would break her. It would be too hard to lie to her, to tell her that everything was great and just the way she'd imagined. So she sent her a text instead. _hey im here its amzng. gng out 2 eat now, ill call u 2mrro. _Then, after a few seconds' hesitation_, Luv u. _ Trying her best not to give in to tears, she fell asleep on the couch with her hands pressed against her ears to block out the noise.

The next few days passed in much the same way, with still no sign of Ricky. She finally got brave enough to begin leaving the building for short excursions, figuring out the trains, but it was terrifying every time. (Not to mention exhausting, since more often than not the elevators were out.) She'd thought people would begin to get used to her, that she would begin to fit in, but in fact, the more she'd interacted with the other tenants, the more they'd seemed to see through her, and the more they'd delighted in taunting her every chance they got. To make matters worse, she'd discovered that her Spanish wasn't actually that good. Most of the Latinos she talked to laughed at her accent. And then called their friends over so _they _could laugh at her accent.

On the fourth day she'd had enough of it, and when she passed a group of Dominican girls in the stairwell and one of them hollered at her, "Hey puta! Who'd you have to fuck to afford those shoes?" she'd turned and asked in a confrontational way, "_Excuse me_, Rosie Perez?" Then she'd unleashed an epic rant of Lima Heights proportions, a rant that made her glory days of trash talking in high school look like Little League compared to the Olympics. It had been cathartic, it had provided a much-welcomed rush of endorphins, and it had made her feel like Santana Lopez again for the first time in days. But even before she'd finished she'd begun to wonder if it was a mistake. And in the dangerous hush that immediately followed her tirade, while the girls looked at each other in anticipation as if they'd been hoping for just this chance, she'd known for sure. _Oh, shit_.

She'd backed up a few steps, then turned and started running, all five of them right on her heels, shouting threats. By some miracle, possibly thanks to her Cheerios conditioning, she'd made it to the apartment and ducked inside before they could catch up to her, slamming the door and locking it just as they reached it.

In a twist of irony, however, she'd lost a shoe.

Finally, after almost a week, her cousin had made his belated appearance. He seemed to have forgotten she was even coming. "Yo, Santana!" he said, raising his hand for a high five, which she awkwardly returned. "How you been girl?" And then, before she could answer, "_Damnnn_, you got boobs!"

She'd glanced down at her chest. "Um... yeah. I guess."

"That's awesome," he laughed as if she'd told a joke, heading into the bedroom. She followed him. He continued talking while he threw some clothes into a duffel bag. "Hey, how much you pay for those? I been thinkin' about getting my girlfriend some. There's this Cuban doc does 'em cheap out of the back of the beauty salon? Ain't licensed, but he's real safe... in case you ever want an upgrade."

"Thanks," she said dryly. "But I think I'll stick with these."

He went into the bathroom and gathered up a few things from the medicine cabinet. "So, you good here? You need anything?" And then, before she could reply, "Hey, how's your mom? She still hot?"

Santana tried to think of a way to answer this somewhat disturbing question, but he was already heading toward the front door. Bewildered, she said, "Wait, are you leaving again?"

"Fraid so," he said with a regretful air, "You know how it is. Work all week, party all weekend. Got places to be. You doin' okay here?"

And there were so many ways to say no to that question that she couldn't even think of where to begin. So instead she did the easiest thing, the thing that was becoming a habit. She lied. "Yeah, everything's fine. I really appreciate you letting me stay here."

"Right on. You know what they say, Cuz. _Su casa es mi casa_. Or some shit like that." He started to leave, then stuck his head through the door again. "Oh, one more thing. Make sure you keep this sucker locked. If some Nigerian guys come around here lookin' for me, DO NOT let them in. I'm tryin' to work out a little... _payment plan_ with them. Got it?"

"Um.. okay," she said, looking worried, but he was already gone.

And so that was that. She'd tried not to let herself feel deflated, but it was hard to avoid. In the back of her mind she'd been thinking that when he finally came home, she wouldn't be so alone, so isolated. But it seemed he hardly even lived here. She stood there for a minute by herself, then sighed and went back to watch yet another ancient, obnoxious movie. Of course, she'd forgotten to ask him about the remote control.

After her initial reluctance on the first night, she'd begun to take all too much advantage of the ability to call Brittany. Sometimes she called her four or five times a day, even when she knew she shouldn't. But she seemed unable to stop herself. She _needed _to hear her voice. She clung to it like a life preserver, the only thing keeping her from giving in to despair. Brittany, to her credit, never once claimed to be busy or tried to end the conversation early. Maybe she felt obligated, since she was the one who'd convinced her to come to the city in the first place. She'd refused to allow her to stay behind in Lima with her, which had been Santana's first, terrified instinct. For this reason, Brittany would have stayed on the line for hours if she wanted her to, and sometimes, she did. But the fact was, now that Labor Day was past, school had started in Lima, and she needed to buckle down and study if she had any hope of finally obtaining the diploma she'd missed out on last semester. Santana knew this, and hated herself a little for taking up her time and breaking her concentration.

And to be honest, now that they were apart on a more permanent basis than just summer trips, she'd discovered that Brittany wasn't much of a phone person. Their conversations often lapsed into long, uninterpretable silences. When they were together these silences were part of their dynamic; they were comforting, soothing even. On the phone, though, they were just baffling blank spaces. Santana often found herself asking, "Are you still there?" But even the muffled background noises of Brittany's house were preferable to the loneliness she felt in the apartment when she wasn't on the phone. Sometimes she had the crazy urge to ask her if she would just leave the line open all the time while she went about her day.

Eventually, as she'd known it would, the day came when she could see that her money for food and minor living expenses would soon run out. Ricky had said nothing about rent, and she assumed that since it was a low-income housing project maybe it wasn't much of a problem for him. But still, she had to eat. Her dad, after months of crafty scheming and manipulation by both herself and her mother, had agreed with a great show of reluctance to pay the tuition fees at the city college she'd enrolled at. But to make sure his disappointment and disgust with her choice was evident, he'd refused to pay a cent to cover anything else. Which meant that she was going to have to undergo that most dreaded, horrifying of all human degradations: She was going to have to _get a job_.

Instead of searching in the Washington Heights neighborhood where she currently found herself stranded, she looked for something in the downtown area of the college itself, hoping that once school started, classes and work would mean she only had to be in the barrio for sleeping. To her surprise, it wasn't hard to land a cocktail waitressing gig at a ritzy drinks establishment. All she had to do was lie and say she was twenty-one since the management refused to hire anyone under legal drinking age, which was no biggie. She had multiple fake IDs, ranging in age from nineteen to thirty-two. She wasn't sure what kind of scenario would require her to be thirty-two, but she figured it was best to be prepared for anything.

Despite being an hour late on her first day because of an unleashed pitbull that cornered her in the hallway for a harrowing ten minutes and caused her to miss her train, she thought things had gone pretty well. She liked the owner, an Indian guy who reminded her vaguely of Principal Figgins, which shouldn't have been comforting, but somehow was. Not to mention, any moron could do this stuff. It was mostly just serving drinks to asshole yuppies and hipsters. Maybe this job thing wouldn't be so bad after all. _I'm a damn good waitress_, she thought as her shift ended.

"You are a terrible waitress," the owner informed her, after asking to see her for a minute before she left. He stood at a table refilling salt shakers. "The worst I've seen in my entire history in the restaurant business. And I have hired many many waitresses."

"What_?_" She was truly puzzled. "But I didn't get any orders wrong!"

"It's not the orders, it is your attitude. You are _awful _to people. You can not treat customers like that. One of them wanted to take out a restraining order against you."

"Who, that guy that looked like a meth-head Conan O'Brien?" she asked in a sullen voice. "He _should_, if he knows what's good for him."

"I'm sorry, but it's not going to work out. I can pay you in cash for the hours you worked tonight, but that is all." He headed up toward the register, and she followed him.

"What about that big group in the back?" she protested. "They left me a huge tip."

"They thought it was dinner theater. When they left they congratulated me on hiring an actress who plays such a convincing horrible bitch!"

"Well, there's an idea," she offered a little sheepishly. "Why don't we just run with that?"

"Tempting, but I think I'll pass," he said. He started to count out her wages.

"Look, I really need this job, okay? I'm new to the city, and..." She lowered her voice because it was so embarrassing to admit. "I'm almost out of money."

"Do you know how many other girls are out there right now with that exact same story?" he asked. "Hundreds. Maybe thousands. The difference is, most of them won't make my patrons fear for their lives."

She sighed, giving up. It was no use. Obviously the guy wasn't going to budge. She waited for him to finish counting out her money, allowing her eyes to roam around the interior of the restaurant, trying not to let him see how hopeless she felt. She wanted the job, but she didn't want his pity. Her gaze snagged on something near the front that she hadn't noticed during her brief stint of serving drinks.

"What's that stage for?"

He glanced up at it, as if he'd forgotten it was there. "I used to employ a band. Four brothers. Then one weekend they went home to visit their family in Toronto, and never came back." He shook his head, disgusted. "_Canadians_."

She saw a ray of hope, but tried not to act too eager. "Well, hey... _I'm_ a singer."

He gave her a skeptical look. "What kind of experience do you have?"

Shit, he'd have to ask _that _question. "I... I was in show choir for three years in high school." Immediately, she could see that she'd lost his interest, so she hastened to add, "I know it sounds lame. I mean, it was lame, a lot of the time. But we won a National championship last year. We were _good_."

We _were _good, she thought to herself fiercely, feeling a surprising surge of loyalty.

"It all sounds very cute, but I am afraid it's not exactly..."

"I can sing anything," she interrupted him. "Whatever style you want. I have very... eclectic tastes." Was that the right word? She tried to recall her SAT vocab prep, praying she hadn't said something ridiculous.

And now she could see him wavering, so she took the final plunge. "Listen, just give me one chance, all right? I swear I won't screw it up. If people still hate me, then... you don't even have to pay me. I'll just leave. You'll never hear from this horrible bitch again."

He handed her a slim pile of cash, her wages for one night. "All right," he said, with obvious trepidation. "One more chance. Tomorrow night. But I am not promising anything."

"Thank you," she said, so relieved she wanted to hug him and his adorable accent. "Thank you so much. And if I'm rude to people, they'll just think it's part of the performance." Off of his look, she held up her hand and quickly added, "I won't be, though." Then, before she could say something that would make him change his mind, she hurried out.

When she'd arrived back at the building, late, the elevator had taken her to the 14th floor and then stopped, refusing to go any further. She'd taken the stairs the rest of the way, and was so distracted by thoughts of potential set lists that she hadn't even noticed the group of Dominican girls hanging out on the 16th floor stairwell until she'd practically walked right into them.

"Hey perra!" the same girl from the other day hailed her. "You shouldn't be out so late. But since you are, we got an offer for you."

Santana waited, wary, trying to keep her mouth shut.

"We'll give you your shoe back in exchange for that jacket."

The jacket in question was worth six hundred bucks, and she knew it had probably been a mistake to wear it tonight, since it was still hot outside, but she'd wanted to look nice for her first day of work. Clearly, though, this trade wasn't optional. So, after a few seconds of inner debate, she gritted her teeth in resentment, took it off, and handed it over, praying they would let her go up without any further harassment.

"Oh shit," the girl said now, handing the jacket off to one of her friends for safekeeping. "You know what, I just remembered. I gave the shoe to mi hermano. He's using it as an ashtray."

The other girls all laughed, and Santana gave them a wan, bitter smile, because of course she hadn't expected to get the goddamn shoe back. She started up the stairs, but the ringleader hollered at her. "Hey, where you from, anyway?"

She considered ignoring the question, but she didn't want to antagonize them any more than necessary, so she half turned and said, "Ohio."

They laughed even harder now, as if this was the funniest thing they'd heard in years. The girl lit a cigarette as she got her amusement under control. Looking up at Santana, she said, "Let me give you some advice, girl. _Go home_. Because this fucking place? You ain't gonna make it here." There was something deep down in her expression that looked like actual sincerity, though it was hard to see behind the mockery, envy, and contempt. In an alternate universe, they might even have been friends. Not in this one, though.

Santana continued up, and once inside the relative safety of the apartment, she wasted no time in calling Brittany. She told her about the events of the day, about her new job, and about the girls in the hallway. Only in this slightly censored version, she'd given them the jacket because she felt sorry for their poverty and horrible fashion sense, and because she was sick of it anyway. Sometimes she wasn't sure whether Brittany believed everything she said or not. But it was enough that she pretended to. It was almost like Santana could make these more optimistic versions of her life in the city true just by saying them out loud. Almost, but not quite.

In addition to being the official start of her singing career, the next day also happened to be her first day of classes. This, then, she thought, was where she would make all those friends that she'd anticipated would simply materialize the moment she got to New York. Here, she would finally find them.

But it didn't quite seem to be working out that way. She went to all her classes; she even managed to be interested in them. It was amazing how much she could focus on the teacher when Brittany wasn't throwing wadded paper balls at her back, or playing footsie with her under the table. But no one spoke to her. Hardly anyone even made eye contact with her. Outside in the center of campus, trying to find a place to eat lunch, she'd been confronted with a horror she'd never faced in high school, not once. She'd had to sit alone. There were groups of students everywhere, and there were couples, both gay and straight Everyone seemed to have somebody. Everyone but her. She missed her Cheerios uniform and the status it had given her with an almost physical pang. Especially the way, even outside the halls of McKinley, in Lima itself, it had made people look at her with respect and forced them to realize she was someone important. Here, she was nothing. She might as well have been invisible.

When her classes were done for the day, she made one last-ditch attempt to connect with people by deciding to attend a gay and lesbian student organization meeting she'd seen advertised on a flyer in the hallway. But when she'd reached the door of the classroom, the people inside were clustered in a tight, cohesive knot, laughing together as if they'd known each other for years. She'd hung back for a minute, until finally a guy noticed her and asked in a polite but slightly impatient way, "Can I help you?" They all turned to stare at her, and she couldn't help but feel like she was interrupting something. "Sorry, wrong room," she'd muttered, and backed out. So... that was that.

It wasn't surprising that by the time she reached the restaurant, her confidence levels weren't exactly high. And maybe she was imagining it, but the place seemed much more crowded than it had when she'd been serving drinks last night. In fact, the room itself seemed bigger, with more tables. The owner wasted no time in introducing her to his fifteen year old niece, her designated piano player. He informed her that if she wanted more music than that, she'd have to bring it herself. And then, without ceremony, he pointed her toward the stage, where she could see a mike stand had already been set up.

"_Now_?" she asked. It all seemed so abrupt.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you wish to take your break before you start working?" he asked with heavy sarcasm.

"No, I just meant... okay, I'm going." She swallowed hard, forcing herself toward the stage at the front of the room. This was ridiculous. She'd been performing for years. Why did it feel like she was walking through quicksand? Why was her mouth so dry? Why was this so terrifying?

When she climbed the two steps and stood on the slightly elevated platform looking out over the restaurant, she suddenly knew. It was because she'd never done this by herself before. Other than auditions in front of only a few people she knew well, she'd never been out here on her own like this, with all eyes on her. She'd had an entire choir, an entire _family_, right there next to her. Standing up here tonight, she felt more alone than she ever had in her life.

Gradually, the room began to quiet down as the patrons noticed her and waited for something to happen. She couldn't imagine what they wanted her to do. She turned and looked behind her at the piano player, as if hoping for some kind of rescue, but the girl stared back at her with a blank face, waiting to be given instruction.

She turned again, and now the room was even quieter. A few people cleared their throats, as if they were embarrassed for her. There was a tiny ripple of tipsy laughter, then someone shushing the person responsible. The owner was standing behind everyone else, his arms crossed, looking impatient and already irritated with her.

She opened her mouth to say something... anything. But nothing would come to her. And she suddenly realized that she couldn't do this. It just wasn't going to happen. She'd overestimated her own courage.

"I... I'm sorry," she mumbled into the microphone. "Sorry." She turned to go.

And then, from one of the darkened tables on the opposite side of the room, a voice. A voice calling out, "So what does it take to get some Winehouse up in here?" Not just any voice, but a _familiar _voice.

She jerked her head around, startled. In the murky light, she could just barely make him out. Kurt. And sitting next to him, Rachel, who now put her fingers in her mouth and gave one of those obnoxious loud whistles, followed by a "Wooo!" and a flurry of clapping.

She stared at them in shock, then she felt a smile break across her face, maybe the first genuine smile in weeks. The smile turned into a silent, relieved laugh. She felt her confidence rush back in to fill the void. After a few seconds' hesitation, she whispered something to the piano player and pulled out the correct sheet music. Holding her head up, she walked back to the microphone and said in her normal voice, "Okay, this one's for Mr. Fancy Pants in the back."

The music started, and she'd performed a slowed-down version of Tears Dry on Their Own. And now that she'd got her mojo back, she wasn't at all surprised to see that the entire room was in thrall to her, that they barely made a sound and that they kept their eyes on her at all times. Of course they did. _I'm a natural_, she thought to herself. After the Amy song, she'd done some Adele, then some retro stuff from the sixties and some standards. She took the microphone out of the stand and used the whole stage, occasionally sitting on the edge of it and a few times even hopping up onto the piano. (At this, the Indian owner's niece gave her a disapproving look. It made her miss Brad.)

Before she knew it, it was time for a break. She almost didn't want to stop, because she'd been flirting through song with a few of the women customers, and even though she didn't think they were gay, she felt she was doing a fairly good job of convincing them that they might be. She basked in the applause for a minute or two, then got a glass of water and headed to the other side of the room.

"You were outstanding," Rachel gushed before Santana even managed to sit down. "You brought the house down. However, I do have a _few _notes. At a couple of key moments your pitch was just a bit iffy, which of course only someone with superior musical training such as myself would notice..."

"Rachel." Kurt gave her a quick shake of his head.

Taking his signal, she said, "But we can talk about it some other time."

Santana sipped from her water, marveling at the fact that this annoying babble could actually seem comforting. She had no idea what they were doing here, but in a way it seemed inevitable.

"It was an amazing performance," Kurt told her. "They loved you. I felt like I was watching a Holy Roller preacher convert sinners through the power of the Lord. Only with more eye sex."

"Yeah, well, thanks. For your... you know." She didn't want to spell it out. Now that she'd proven herself a success, the stage fright and subsequent rescue felt like something that had happened years ago.

He seemed to understand, and gave her a small smile. "Anytime."

"How the hell did you even find this place?"

They shot each other meaningful glances as if they were trying to keep a secret, and Rachel said, "It turns out our school is just a few blocks west of here. What are the chances, right?"

"But to be honest, Santana," Kurt took over. "We did have an ulterior motive for coming here tonight... other than to watch you work your dark magic."

"Was it to ask me to rescue you from that horrible, horrible scarf? Because just being honest? I think it may already be too late."

Kurt glanced down at the scarf in question, then seemed to be at a loss for words. "Why don't you start?" he suggested to Rachel.

"Okay, here's the thing. You know that Kurt and I were both accepted into the prestigious New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts, commonly referred to as NYADA." She said these words in a loud voice, as if maybe the people at the tables near theirs would be impressed. "Technically, all first year students are required to live on campus. And we were so excited about it - we thought it would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be around our own kind. So needless to say we were both elated to move into the dorms a few weeks ago." She paused, looking dramatic. "Well... to put it bluntly, it was an unmitigated disaster. Everything that could possibly go wrong, did. My roommate? She was a total narcissistic diva. All she did was talk nonstop about herself and her ginormous talent. Can you imagine?"

"That must have been excruciating," Santana replied, the sarcasm predictably going right over Rachel's head.

"You can say that again. Not only that, but there were so many ridiculous rules. Like for instance, no tap dancing in the hallways. Hello! It's a performing arts school!"

"Plus, they wouldn't let me stay in Rachel's room past nine PM," Kurt said. "I mean, for the love of Nancy, what did they think I was doing to her in there?" He shuddered a little. "Honestly."

"And as if all that weren't bad enough," Rachel fumed, "they wouldn't even let us have _scented candles_." She spoke as if this was the ultimate outrage and the point that decided the issue.

Santana glanced back over toward the stage, wondering how long her break was and if this sob story had any point to it.

"Anywho," Kurt said, noticing her impatience, "To cut to the chase, Rachel's dads were able to finagle us a doctor's note that claims that due to our midwestern upbringing under the open skies of Ohio, we both suffer from a severe vertical phobia that prevents us from living in any building higher than four stories."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Santana said.

"Yes, but the threat of a lawsuit can be a powerful argument. So they allowed us to move off campus."

"We found this incredible place," Rachel said, excited again now. "It's in Brooklyn. Sunset Park. The commute is a little long, but it's a really safe neighborhood. And we're on the fourth floor, so we have access to the roof. The view is to die for."

"That's great," Santana said, with feigned enthusiasm. "You must feel just like a Jewish Felicity. What does this have to do with me?"

"Well, the thing is," Kurt said, "Even though the rent is remarkably affordable for the size, we still need at least one other person to be able to swing it."

"And it _is _a three-bedroom," Rachel added. "Even though we suspect two of them used to be one room and somebody built an illegal wall down the middle of it."

Santana thought she was finally beginning to see where this was going. "Hold up, are you asking me to move in with you?" To her surprise, somewhere deep inside of her, something grasped at this absurd idea like a rope thrown to a drowning victim.

"We just thought it made sense. I mean, I know you've been living in Washington Heights," Rachel said. "And if we were just speaking from a musical theater standpoint I'd have to say I wholeheartedly approve. I don't think anybody would dispute that Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius."

"_Who_?"

"What Rachel's trying to say is," Kurt said, "Broadway nostalgia factor aside, the neighborhood you're in isn't a very safe place. Especially for someone from out of town. Did you know a girl was attacked just three blocks away from your building last week? And unlike you, she probably wasn't wearing jewelry worth more than most people's cars."

"But aside from all that, it must be so lonely living by yourself," Rachel said more quietly. "I can't even imagine. We know you've been having a bit of a difficult time adjusting."

"Why would you think that?" Santana asked in a sharp voice. There was sympathy in Rachel's tone, which caused her hackles to go up immediately. What the hell was going on here?

They threw each other those secretive glances again, as if wondering how much to say.

And then, suddenly, it clicked in her mind. _Brittany_. Of course. It had to be Brittany. Everything made sense now... she'd set this whole thing up. That was how they knew where she lived. That was how they'd known she'd be performing here in the first place. This was an ambush.

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a second, feeling betrayed.

They watched her, both seeming to realize she'd figured it out.

"She's just worried about you," Kurt said softly. "She thinks you're having a hard time. And she wondered if maybe we could all help each other out. That's all."

Santana inhaled slowly in preparation. She'd been tempted, maybe. A few seconds ago she couldn't deny she'd been just a little tempted. But if there was one thing in the world she couldn't bear, it was someone else's pity. Especially from _these _two. And now she had all the justification she needed to allow her to return to her senses and let them know how badly they'd misjudged her.

"Okay, let's get one thing straight here, Laverne and Shirley," she said. "Where I live is none of your damn business. But even if it was, you'd still be making fools of yourselves, because for your information? Since I moved to the city, my life has been the shiznit. And so, yeah, maybe I didn't want Brittany to know that. Maybe I made it sound a little less ghetto-fab than it is, and you know why? Because I feel bad for her. I'm out here living it up like a Jay-Z video, and she's still stuck in Loserville with a glee club that doesn't even have me and Mercedes to save it from mediocrity."

Kurt and Rachel looked at each other as if they'd halfway expected this, and even though she could tell they weren't buying a word of it, she couldn't stop now. Forward momentum kept her cresting on over the edge.

"What did you think, that just because we all happen to find ourselves in the same zip code, we would magically become best friends? Because I mean, the fact is, I'm gonna be hanging with some pretty badass people here. Just as... soon as I meet them," she added evasively, her gaze shifting downward for a second. "And when that happens, I can't have you Mouseketeers dragging down my street cred with your obscure theater references and your traumatizing wardrobes. Seriously, Hummel, _why _is that scarf allowed to exist?"

"Santana..." Rachel said.

"No no no, let me finish. I needs to make this clear, right the hell now. Because the three of us? We're not gonna be running into each other a lot. We're not gonna be hanging out. And we most _certainly _are not gonna be roomies. Got it?"

And though a tiny part of her hated herself for it, she couldn't deny that the hurt and embarrassment on their faces gave her a sense of power that she hadn't felt in a long time.

They were both quiet for a few seconds, absorbing her speech. Eventually, Rachel gave a hint of a bitter smile and said, "Fine. If that's the way you feel, then we won't bother you again." She stood up and turned to go. Then, seeming to have second thoughts, she pulled a folded slip of paper out of her purse. "But here's the address, just in case you're ever in the neighborhood."

"I wouldn't count on it," Santana told her. But she took the paper.

Kurt stood now, too. He looked down at her with resignation. She could tell he felt sorry for her. "Good luck, Santana," he said in a dry, sardonic voice. "You're... _really _gonna need it."

And then they walked out. And though there was a voice deep inside of her wondering what the hell she was doing, a voice shouting _Stop them_, she didn't. She sat there and watched them go, trying to maintain her expression of superiority.

Somewhere off to the side, a man gave a meaningful cough, and she looked around to see the club owner pointing at his watch. _Great_. Somehow, she'd forgotten that she still had to go back up there and sing. She stood and headed wearily toward the stage. Now, of course, the room was full of strangers again.

Though the rest of the night was somewhat of a blur, she still had the feeling she'd done pretty well. The audience didn't seem to notice anything was bothering her, at least. And the owner seemed pleased enough, since when she left at the end of the night he'd smiled and given her an official work schedule. So at least one thing about this day hadn't been a disaster.

Her trip back to the building seemed even more terrifying than usual, however, and she blamed Kurt for putting the fears into her head. Did he _really _have to tell her about the girl getting attacked? It was probably just her imagination, but everyone seemed to be staring at her, at her expensive clothes and her perfectly manicured nails and her diamond necklace that she knew she should stop wearing but refused to out of stubbornness. Inside her pocket, she kept one hand nervously clutching her going-away present from Coach Sylvester - a can containing a mixture of pepper spray, sulfuric acid, and Will Schuester's cologne, guaranteed "to both disfigure _and _nauseate" any potential assailants.

Safely back inside the apartment, she'd thought about calling Brittany, but then changed her mind and set the phone aside. For one thing, she was pissed. Brittany had no right to tell Kurt and Rachel all that stuff. What the hell had she thought she was doing? But even more than being angry, Santana was ashamed. She knew Britt would be disappointed in her for the way she'd reacted, for the way she'd ruined what must have seemed to everyone like the perfect solution. And she didn't want to deal with that disappointment tonight. It was enough work just dealing with her own.

So instead she settled on the couch for her usual pre-bedtime routine of eating a frozen dinner alone and watching TCM. Against her will, she was becoming quite the film buff. But in a cruel irony that seemed to be the cherry on top of the shit sundae that was this entire week, the movie playing tonight was the original 1961 West Side Story. She considered not watching it, but the place seemed too lonely without the TV on. So she sat through the entire thing with a lump in her throat, wondering why she'd been in such a hurry for high school to end. Right now she felt like she'd give anything to turn the clock back a year.

By the time the movie was nearly over and the Boy Like That duet came on, the lump in her throat was practically choking her, and her eyes were burning with unshed tears. She knew if she gave in right now, it would be an epic emotional meltdown, the kind of cry that lasted for hours, the kind she hadn't allowed herself once since arriving here a few weeks ago. And she had almost decided to let it come, to let the storm wash over her and wear itself out, because it couldn't possibly leave her feeling any worse than she did right now.

Then, suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door. More of a _pounding _than a knock. She jumped up, startled.

A deep male voice boomed, "Ricky! You in there?"

She started to yell back that he wasn't home, that he didn't even technically live here, but for some reason she stopped herself.

A different man's voice now added, "You best open up right now, friend! We got some business matters to discuss!"

The accent was one she couldn't quite place, but then her cousin's words from his one and only stop at the apartment came back to her. _Oh, fuck._ The Nigerian guys?

Moving as quietly as she could, she went over and turned the TV off, then the floor lamp. The room was immediately plunged into near darkness, the only light cast by the streetlights shining through the window. Maybe they would think no one was home.

The plan seemed to be working when she heard one of them say to the other, "Looks like he isn't here." She breathed a sigh of relief, but the relief was short-lived, because the next thing she heard was, "Go ahead and break it open."

A splintering bang came from the door. She froze like a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to do. Then another bang. This time, she forced herself to move toward the one bedroom in the back. And just as the third bang shattered the door from its hinges, she dove underneath the bed, rolling herself as far back against the wall as she could.

She lay on the grit-encrusted floor with sweat pouring from her, the rushing of blood so loud in her ears that at first she almost couldn't hear if they were inside the apartment or not. But then they started tearing the place apart. She could hear shattering glass, drawers being pulled out and tossed aside, furniture overturned. She heard what must have been the TV crashing onto the floor, a sharp _pop _as the electrical circuitry fried. She remained as still as she could, not making a sound. There was something digging into her back, but she didn't even want to stir enough to remove it.

Obviously not finding what they were looking for in the living room, they moved toward the bedroom. _Holy shit_, she thought, her hand automatically moving to the pocket where the pepper spray had been, but she'd forgotten she'd already changed clothes. The overhead light was flipped on, and they walked across the room, toward the bed. She heard them rifling through the drawer in the bedside table. Their feet were so close she could have reached out and touched their shoes.

_Don't look under the bed_, she prayed. _Don't look under the bed_. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would somehow keep her from being seen. Then she felt something crawling over her ankle, something she suspected was probably a roach. She bit her lip and tried to endure it, using all the willpower she possessed not to jerk her leg.

"He don't have shit here," one of them finally said in a disappointed voice. "He must keep it all on him."

"Come on, let's go," the other man responded. "I got an idea where he might be."

She heard them retreating back through the apartment, then out the door, down the hallway, down the stairwell. Still, she didn't move. She hardly let herself breathe.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably no more than five minutes, she pulled herself out from under the bed, hesitant, as if maybe it was a trick and they'd only pretended to leave. She was soaked in sweat and covered with filth from the floor, and with a grimace, she reached behind her and pulled out whatever the hell it was that had been digging into her ribs. The remote control. Of course. Of course, _now _she would find the fucking remote control.

She held it in her hand for a second, staring at it, and then flung it at the wall so hard that it shattered. One of the batteries rolled back and knocked against her shoe.

Pulling herself up from the floor, she wasted no time in packing up her belongings, or what she could still find of them in the ravaged apartment. She gathered all her clothes, her makeup, her stuff out of the shower, her iPod, stuffing everything back into her luggage as fast as she could. She considered leaving behind her brand-new textbooks, but decided that since she'd already paid a fortune for them, she might as well throw them in. Even though there wasn't much of a chance she'd be using them.

Because it was over. She gave up. She was admitting defeat and going home. Back to Ohio, back to Lima, back to Brittany. She would live with her parents forever. She would get eighteen cats and start hoarding milk jugs and become one of those eccentric small-town lesbians who wear men's clothes and mutter to themselves on the street. She didn't care anymore. The city had won.

Without even stopping to clean up first, she'd gathered all her bags together and left without looking back. She'd feel safer sleeping on a bench at the airport than she would spending another night in this hellhole. Even if she couldn't get a flight right away, even if she had to wait days for her dad to agree to pay for the ticket, she'd still rather be there than here.

She'd left the building fully intending to go to JFK. There were no other plans in her mind. But yet, somehow... without ever quite understanding how it had happened or when she had made the decision or what strange, twisted, satirical power in the universe had directed her course... she hadn't ended up at the airport. She hadn't ended up anywhere near the airport.

Instead, a few hours after leaving Washington Heights, she'd found herself in Brooklyn.

She'd found herself standing in a quiet, relatively peaceful street - or as peaceful as any New York City street can be in the hours just after midnight. She'd found herself looking up at a weathered brown brick building, probably built around the turn of the 20th century and wearing its age like a tattered but still respectable old lady. She'd found herself walking softly past a man sleeping in a recliner chair in the downstairs hallway (what the hell?) and up four quiet flights of stairs. And then, somehow, against all the logic that existed in the world, she'd found herself tapping on the door of the apartment marked 403. Then, when no one answered, tapping louder.

And when they'd both finally come to the door together in their ridiculous pajamas (oh God, were their pajamas _matching_?), she'd dropped her bags on the floor and opened her mouth to tell them about the huge favor she was here to bestow on them, about how after doing some thinking she'd decided to take pity on them and their wretched little lives after all.

The two of them had stared at her in sleep-bleary confusion, waiting. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, her face crumpled, her lip quivered, and in a plaintive voice she wailed, "_I_ _haaaate New York_."

They'd looked at each other for a brief, wordless conferral, and then, wonder of wonders... they'd stepped aside to let her in. She came forward and collapsed against them in an awkward three-way hug, hoping this would somehow suffice for a thank you without her actually having to say the words. She clung to them for a few minutes, still weeping, while they patted her back and rolled their eyes at each other.

Then she gave a loud sniffle, drew in a shaky breath, and moved off to find the shower, leaving her bags in the hallway for them to bring in.

* * *

><p>And so... she'd been here ever since.<p>

Obviously, right from the beginning, it hadn't been a perfect arrangement. On the very first morning, when she'd come into the kitchen in her sweats, no-makeup, messy hair, and glasses, Kurt had gasped in shock and muttered, "Oh my God. Rachel, who is that?" So when he went out on the balcony to read the newspaper, she'd locked him out for two hours.

The three of them bickered and feuded non-stop; they mocked each other mercilessly; they drove each other crazy. From that first day, they fought over everything; decisions ranging from where to have dinner to what to watch on TV to how to put the toilet paper correctly on the roll. (Rachel: You're supposed to pull it from the front. _Everybody _knows this!) They fought over the rent and the cable bill and the groceries. (Santana: I'm not helping pay for her creepy veggie milk, do you know how much that shit costs?) They fought over who'd used up all the hot water and whose turn it was to do the dishes and who'd left the toilet seat up. (Kurt: I'm sorry, ladies, but even if I'm gay, I still don't pee sitting down.)

Once, due to a phone message-related misunderstanding, they'd spent an entire twenty-four hours without uttering a word to each other. It had been perhaps the most peaceful interval the apartment had yet seen. They all wondered if maybe it would work as a permanent solution. But then Rachel opened an early birthday check from her grandma and decided to use it to buy new clothes, and there was no way in hell Kurt and Santana were going to let _that _happen without their intervention. After all, they had to be seen in public with her now. So, the silence officially broken, they went shopping with her and the three of them spent the afternoon fighting over what she should buy.

And yes, sometimes it was almost too much to bear. It was true that sometimes Santana had to hide the kitchen knives from herself before she went to bed at night, because she was afraid that if she sleptwalked she would murder them both in their sleep. It was true that sometimes Kurt's eyes glazed over in mute, yearning misery, and he looked as if he'd rather check himself into a psychiatric facility than spend one more night with the two of them. It was true that Rachel's bedroom door had developed a jagged, lightning-bolt shaped crack from being melodramatically slammed so many times.

But despite all that, they somehow managed to make it work. They formed shifting alliances; sometimes it was Kurt versus the two girls. Sometimes it was Rachel versus the two gays. Sometimes it was Santana versus the two, well, losers. This way, their allegiances were never cemented and no majority ever ruled for more than a few hours. In general, no majority ruled for more than a few minutes.

And maybe the most surprising thing, to all of them, was that even in the midst of the fighting they found little ways to take care of each other. Because at the end of the day, they were on their own out here, and there was nobody else to do it. When Blaine's first visit ended in an unexpected break-up, Santana and Rachel tried to keep Kurt's spirits up by baking him cupcakes and buying him a subscription to a gay porn website. ("It's the best one for the money," Rachel had assured him. "We checked.") When Santana tried to gross Rachel out by ordering an extra-rare cheeseburger at the corner diner they frequented, and then spent the entire night puking, they'd both stayed up with her to hold her hair back and force her to drink Pepto Bismol. When the three of them had opted for various reasons to stay in the city over Thanksgiving and Finn tried to give Rachel a guilt trip about it, Santana had called him with a long, detailed list about the many ways a human male can "accidentally" lose his testicles. In the end, he'd agreed that staying was a great idea. He'd even come for a surprise visit, at his own expense, to spend the holiday with them.

And when it came to her own confusing relationship status with Brittany, Kurt and Rachel walked a fine line between being supportive and encouraging her to meet new people. After weeks of protest, they'd dragged her to her first lesbian nightclub. She'd been so relieved to find that it wasn't wall-to-wall flannel that she'd hardly even minded when Rachel crowed on the way home about getting more phone numbers than her. (Santana: What are you even gonna do with those? Rachel: Nothing, obviously. It's just nice to be appreciated.) And when she _had _met someone, they'd tried their best to root for the relationship, even though in the end they hadn't been able to keep up the enthusiasm. Neither had Santana, for that matter. But that was a whole different story.

So overall, despite the drawbacks, the living situation was bearable. And sometimes, Santana had to admit, it was even more than bearable.

Like when the two of them visited her at work (they hadn't been lying about their school being only a few blocks away) and she invited them up on stage for duets and the occasional trio. When they sang together, they seemed to connect on a level that spoken words could never come close to. Or when they all piled onto the couch to indulge their shared love of trashy reality TV. Sometimes they even fell asleep and woke up with limbs entangled like a litter of puppies. (When this happened, they extricated themselves without making eye contact and never spoke of it aloud.) Or when they played drunk Pictionary and got to laughing so hard at Rachel's horrible skills and her outrage at their inability to comprehend her drawings that the downstairs neighbors pounded on the ceiling with a broom.

Or, especially, on those nights when they stood on the roof together, drinking illegally purchased wine that made them feel sophisticated, gazing across the bay and up toward the bright, glittering lights of Manhattan. At those moments, it was much more than bearable. At those moments, it felt like this was what they'd come to New York City for. That the life they'd dreamed of wasn't just within reach, but that it was actually _here_. They were actually living it.

And that feeling, more than anything, was what she wanted to share with Brittany.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Even though there was an annoying knocking sound dragging her back toward consciousness, Santana tried to hold on to the last vestiges of her dream. In it, Brittany and John had stopped at some kind of park, and he was trying to convince her to perform Rihanna songs on a picnic table for him. _That son of a bitch_, Santana thought. _ I bet they didn't even have car trouble_.

But the knocking continued, ruthless, breaking into her sleep.

"Go away," she groaned.

Instead of doing so, Kurt opened the door and came in. "Dinner's ready."

"I'm not hungry." She remained where she was, underneath the blankets. "Just leave me alone."

"All right, missy, that's enough feeling sorry for yourself," he said in a sharper tone. "Rachel touched meat for you. Now you're going to get out of that bed, you're gonna eat it, and you're gonna like it."

Slowly, she pulled the coverlet down to reveal her head, raising her eyebrows a little at him.

"And yes, I agree," he said, turning to leave the room. "_That _sounded wanky."

With reluctance, she pulled herself out of bed and followed him to the kitchen, where she found two huge casserole dishes of some kind of lasagna - one for vegans, one for normal people. She carefully avoided the first one.

At the kitchen table, the three of them ate without speaking much. Santana was still groggy from her evening nap, and Kurt and Rachel seemed lost in their own worlds.

But she couldn't stop thinking about the whole situation with Brittany, and she continued picking at the subject like a scab, even though she could tell no one wanted to hear it. "You know, this is so typical. I should have known something would go wrong. Those jazz band geeks are all disasters waiting to happen. I should have just sent her a plane ticket."

"Pff." Kurt seemed amused by this idea. "And assuming you weren't planning on blowing one of the airline employees, how exactly would you have afforded a plane ticket?"

She gave him a withering look. "Can we please leave your fantasies out of this?"

They continued eating in sullen silence. Even Rachel was glum. Something seemed to be bothering her. Santana realized she should probably say something about the food.

"It's good," she offered. "I'm eating it, aren't I?"

Rachel forced a small smile. "I'm glad you like it." But then she went back to looking distracted, so clearly that wasn't the problem.

"Oh, _I_ see what's going on here," Santana said, after a few more seconds of puzzling it out. "Someone's thinking about her knight-in-shining-blubber."

Now Rachel closed her eyes for a second, irritated, which led Santana to believe she'd hit the nail on the head. "Mm-hm." She nodded. "I can always tell when you get that faraway look in your eyes that you're fantasizing about those quivering, gelatinous man teats."

"Santana, I'm trying to eat," Kurt pleaded.

"Sinking your teeth into one," she went on, ignoring him. "Kneading them gently with your fingers to check for lumps..."

"Fine." Kurt dropped his fork with a clatter, then stood up and left the room in a huff. She watched him go, a satisfied smirk on her face. Predictably, she was starting to feel a little better now.

She turned back to Rachel. "Look, I get it. You're jealous. It makes sense. Brittany's coming to New York, probably to stay, and Finn's stuck rassling steers or whatever he does when he's not playing ball in that podunk cowtown. It sucks for you."

"You know, for your information, Santana, Texas A&M is a good school," she snapped. "It's a hell of a lot better than the one _you're_ going to."

Since she had no way to dispute this statement, Santana rolled her eyes and ignored it.

Rachel continued. "But if you want to know the truth, I wasn't thinking about Finn at all. I was thinking about..." She abruptly stopped herself. "You know what, forget it. I've had quite enough of your acid wit today." As she said this she stood up from the table and carried Kurt's plate and her own over to the sink, where she began running water.

_Damn it._ Santana watched her, now undeniably curious. Rachel had this obnoxious habit of wearing her heart on her sleeve and letting you know every detail of what she was feeling, whether you wanted to know or not, but then clamming up just when things threatened to get interesting.

"Okay, fine," she said, as if they'd been negotiating. "I promise I'll only make fun of you _inside _my head. Not out loud."

But there was only icy silence in response, so she stood and carried her own plate over to the sink. She leaned on the counter and regarded Rachel's profile as she watched her scrape the plates into the garbage disposal, trying to gauge how close she was to cracking. "Come on, spill it," she begged. "I'm _bored_." In a wheedling tone, she added, "You know you want to."

And now she could see from the softened expression on her face that she was going to crack. _Success_.

Prefacing her confession with a sigh, Rachel said, "All right. But it'll sound ridiculous."

"Well, when has that ever stopped you?"

She put the plug in the sink and squeezed in dish soap, waiting for it to fill with water. But still, she didn't turn around or make eye contact. She stared out the window, into the lighted rooms of the building across the alley. "I was thinking about us." After a glance to the side at Santana's mildly alarmed face, she quickly clarified, "About the three of us. I guess I was just thinking about how different things'll be. When Brittany's here."

Confused, because this wasn't at all what she'd been expecting, Santana said, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know." Rachel shrugged a little. "I told you it was silly. But you have to admit we have a certain dynamic that works for us. To go from three people to four, it'll be an adjustment. To be honest, I think I've been trying not to let myself dwell on it too much. Maybe that's why I forgot the flowers."

"Are you worried it'll be too crowded? Because I'm pretty sure your Broadway playbills take up more space than Brittany will."

"It's not the space." Dunking the plates into the sinkful of water, she added, "I guess it's just... I know it sounds dumb, but I'll sort of miss being the only other girl. Obviously it has to be acknowledged that ninety percent of the time you're a horrible person to be around, but... then there's that other ten percent. I mean, we've had _some _fun, haven't we?" And she seemed so uncertain about the potential answer to this question that it was a little sad.

"Well, _yeah_, I guess," Santana said grudgingly, embarrassed at being forced to admit it. Then all of a sudden she understood what was going on here. _She's afraid she's gonna be left out. _And now she felt a little bad for not thinking about it before. But the truth was, she'd been so excited about Brittany's impending arrival that she hadn't spared even a second's thought as to how it might affect anybody else. "But you're overthinking this. I don't even know for sure whether she's staying or not. There's a really good chance that she'll hate it here." It made her feel sick to say this, because it was her worst fear, but she knew it was true. "And even if she does stay, things won't change that much."

"They will, though. It's inevitable. And I'm not blaming you... it was the same when Finn was here for Thanksgiving. I wanted to be with him all the time." She looked a bit wistful at this. "I barely even remembered that you and Kurt existed. Look, I'm not naive," she continued, scrubbing the plates as she talked. "I realize the only reason we formed this strange little dysfunctional family unit to begin with was because none of us could be with the person we wanted to be with. But... now you can." She looked over at Santana. "And I'm happy for you. _Really_. I just can't help but feel a bit nostalgic. It's like a whole era is coming to an end."

Santana looked down, uncomfortable as always in the presence of someone else's emotion. She felt like she'd been tricked into this conversation, forgetting momentarily that she was the one who'd pressed the issue. "It's not like anybody's going anywhere," she told her. "We're all still gonna see each other every day. Whether we want to or not."

"I know that." Rachel ran the water again, rinsing the plates and silverware. "But you can't deny... it won't be quite the same."

"Not _exactly _the same," she conceded, adding in her head _And that's probably a good thing_. The fact was, living at such close quarters with another girl - a girl she wasn't allowed to touch - had been, well, confusing at times, to say the least. There had been some inappropriate thoughts. There had been some bewildering dreams. There had been a few weird moments; one very weird moment in particular that she most certainly wasn't going to think about right now. Brittany's arrival couldn't be taking place at a better time. But apparently, Rachel wasn't aware of any of this. Or if she was, then she had the most twisted sense of nostalgia ever.

Now Rachel glanced to the side, and realizing she'd been staring at her profile a little too long, Santana flicked her gaze away. "Okay, how about this," she said after some thought, as if making an offer. "I promise that when you come to see me at work, you'll still get first dibs on duets. Even if Brittany's there. I'll even let you pick the songs."

Fitting the plates into the drying rack, Rachel couldn't seem to help looking pleased, in spite of herself. "I have to admit, that does make me feel a little better."

Santana nodded, amused. "I figured it would." They smiled at each other for a second, Rachel's expression seeming to say _You know me too well._

"And of course, we'll always have Real Housewives," Santana added. "Britt hates watching that stuff. She says it makes her soul feel dirty, whatever that means."

Rachel seemed to find this funny, but not surprising. Looking out the window again, she stood still for a minute, drawing in a breath and exhaling as if in relief. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For keeping the mockery inside your head. I know it must have been difficult."

Santana considered telling her that she actually _hadn't _been mocking her, even inside her head, but she knew she probably wouldn't be believed. It was like the boy who cried wolf. She had no credibility.

Rachel drained the water and rinsed out the sink, and now that the job was pretty much done, Santana couldn't resist telling her, "It was my turn to do the dishes, you know."

"I know," Rachel said. "But I just figured... it's been a long day." She wiped down the edge of the sink and then hung the dish towel primly from the rack on the oven door. It was a little like watching a six-year-old play house, making sure to follow all the steps in the correct order.

Before she turned to go, she paused and rested her hand briefly on one of Santana's crossed arms, telling her in a firm voice, "She's gonna love it here. I'm sure of it." Then she left the room, as if to spare her the agony of having to come up with some kind of non-sarcastic reply to such a sincere remark.

Still leaning against the counter, Santana watched her go. She remained there for a few minutes, lost in thought.

This was one of those times that she sort of missed the days when she hadn't been close to anyone besides Brittany. Everything had been so much less complicated. Lonelier, maybe, but a million times simpler.

* * *

><p>The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Santana attempted to study for a biology quiz she had coming up in a few days, but it was hopeless, as she'd expected. She couldn't keep her mind on anything. Last semester, she'd been surprised by how high her grades were. (She could tell her parents had been too, though her dad had made it clear he believed her school must have extremely low academic standards.) But already this semester, only in the first week, she'd been falling behind in homework and getting distracted in class. It was too hard to concentrate when she knew Brittany would be here soon.<p>

But, she tried to convince herself, it didn't really matter. Her dad was right, anyway. It was just a community college. What difference did it make whether she made A's or whether she barely squeaked through? Passing was passing.

So she abandoned the books on her bed and wandered into the living room. They were both on the couch; Rachel under the lamp, making notations on what looked like sheet music, and Kurt absorbed in watching TV. She squeezed between them, only now realizing for the first time that they were going to have to get some more furniture. The couch was big enough for three people, barely, but not for four.

"_Ughh_," she groaned, noticing that the TV was tuned to Turner Classic Movies, some annoying old black and white film. It was like she couldn't escape from this shit. To show her disgust, she took a passive-aggressive stance. "I guess nobody cares that this channel is personally traumatizing for me. All those memories."

But Kurt was less than impressed. "Santana, get over it. You only lived there for three weeks."

"Three weeks of absolute hell," she said. "Did I tell you about the roach on my leg?"

"_Yes_," they both said in unison.

"Fine," she said as she crossed her arms and settled back into the cushions, insulted. "I just hope if I have nightmares tonight, my screaming doesn't disturb you."

"Please, you think it would take screaming to wake me up?" Kurt muttered. "The wall is so thin I can tell what setting your vibrator is on."

She gasped and stared at him in open-mouthed indignation, momentarily speechless.

"All right, enough," Rachel said, in a belated attempt to keep the peace. "I know!" she added in a bright voice, as if humoring a couple of pre-schoolers. "Let's play _How Many Gays?_"

She was referring to their own specially invented game wherein they tried to see how many closeted gays and lesbians they could spot in old movies and television shows. The current record was nine, from a 1955 episode of I Love Lucy. ("Did Desi Arnaz know _any _straight people?" Kurt had wondered in awe.)

This time, Rachel's ploy worked, and temporary calm returned. The only sounds to issue from the couch were occasional comments like, "The bartender, definitely." And "Him? Oh, I see what you mean."

Between the third and fourth gay, Santana could feel her eyes growing heavy. She slumped down on the cushions and rested her feet on the coffee table. Between the fourth and fifth gay, Rachel put her sheet music aside and switched off the lamp, laying her cheek on the couch's arm rest. Between the fifth and sixth gay Kurt's head tipped backward and the remote control slipped from his hand. By the seventh gay, they were all asleep. No records would be broken tonight.

After a few peaceful hours, Santana became aware of a noise invading her rest. For the second time today, it was an irritating tapping sound. _You've got to be kidding me._ She tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away, but it only seemed to get louder.

"Hello?" Rachel said in a groggy voice beside her.

"It's the door, genius, not the phone," Santana muttered without opening her eyes. "Get up."

"You do it," she replied, her words muffled with sleep.

"Kurt's on my legs."

With a heavy sigh, Rachel dragged herself up from the couch. When she did, Santana's pillow disappeared, so apparently it had been a body part. She stretched out in the now vacated warm spot, trying to go back to sleep.

"Rhonda, you live across the hall!" Rachel said in a loud, condescending voice as she moved toward the front door. "Remember? We've talked about this!"

The door was opened, and Rachel gave a surprised-sounding, "Oh!"

"Hey. Sorry to get here so late. It turns out the car was just out of gas... John's not as smart as I thought he was."

Santana's eyes popped open, and she was suddenly wide awake. She would have recognized that voice even if it was speaking a different language, even if it came to her distorted by distance or illness or emotion or just the cheap walkie-talkies they'd played with as kids. It was the one voice in the world she would recognize no matter what.

"No, it's fine," Rachel was saying. "I'm so glad you made it."

Santana yanked her legs out from under the still-sleeping Kurt so fast that she inadvertently dumped him onto the floor. Then she stepped on his arm in her haste to move toward the hall. "Ah!" he cried out.

She reached the living room doorway and was able to confirm with her eyes what she already knew in her heart. Brittany was just pulling away from a brief hug. "Hm," she said in a contemplative way, staring down at Rachel. "There's something different about you."

"I grew my bangs out," Rachel suggested, clearly fishing for a compliment.

Santana started to move forward, but then for some reason she paused and continued hanging back.

"No, that's not it," Brittany told Rachel, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "I'm pretty sure you're shrinking." She rested her hand on the top of her head, as if measuring her, and then said firmly, "Yes, you are _definitely _shorter than the last time I saw you."

Rachel looked disturbed by this news, and as if she wanted to ask a follow-up question, but before she could get a chance, Brittany had turned to Kurt. Noticing Santana's hesitation, he'd pulled himself up from the floor and stepped in front of her to give her a few more seconds to prepare herself.

"Brittany," he said with a smile, stepping forward for a hug. "Welcome to our humble abode."

"Hey." She hugged him, then said as she pulled back, "Kurt, before we say anything else, I just want to let you know that if you decide to run for mayor of New York, I will totally back your campaign. I'm getting out of politics for good."

"Oh?" His eyebrows went up.

She nodded. "My second term as senior class president was just one financial scandal after another. And that's not even including the chess club's smear campaign to prove I'm not a citizen. I mean, how many times do I have to produce my birth certificate?"

"Well..." With a strained chuckle, he humored her. "I hadn't given much thought to a mayoral run, but... something to keep in mind." He gave Rachel a look that seemed to say _Yep, she's still crazy._

"Good," Brittany said. "'Cuz I think you'd be awesome at it."

Now, finally, she turned her attention to Santana as if she'd just noticed her standing there, though she must have been aware of her presence the entire time.

They stood there facing each other for a few seconds. In that brief interval, Santana took in every detail - her longer hair, her matching fuzzy scarf and hat, the way her cheeks were pink from the cold, the way her eyes still sparkled. But also the fact that her gaze seemed older, somehow... as if the past six months had changed her in subtle ways, had brought her just a little bit closer down to earth.

In a voice so soft it was almost inaudible, Brittany said, "Hi."

Santana tried to reply, but couldn't. Instead she stepped forward into her arms, and for just a minute, time seemed to stop. She stood on tiptoes to press her face into her neck, into the warm wool of her scarf, inhaling the scent of _home _- a scent that apparently had nothing to do with Lima at all, but was all wrapped up in Brittany, in everything she represented, in everything she meant. She breathed it in and felt her throat close up with emotion.

On the periphery of her consciousness she was aware of Kurt and Rachel making a production out of being happy for her, clutching each other and dabbing at their eyes and just generally behaving like over-excitable morons. But she couldn't even manage to be bothered by them right now. She closed her eyes and took one more deep breath as she felt Brittany finally relinquish her tight grip. She stepped back a little, whispering, "I can't believe you're really here."

"I know," Brittany replied, in the same quiet voice, as if they were the only two people in the room. They smiled at each other, and Brittany bit her lip, almost shyly. Then, suddenly thinking of something, she reached down and retrieved a squashed, plastic-wrapped bouquet of tulips that was sticking out of one of her overnight bags. "I got these for you this afternoon when I thought we were almost here." She handed them to Santana, sheepish. "I think I might have killed them though."

"No, they're perfect." She took them and raised them to her nose, trying to hide the dopey grin she could feel plastered to her face. "I'm sure they'll bounce back."

So even though her own plans to get flowers had failed, they'd ended up here anyway. Like it was meant to be. She could appreciate the romantic symbolism of it - the kind that didn't even require words. But of course, there was one person present who couldn't let any situation pass without words.

"Oh, _flowers_!" Rachel said, popping up at Brittany's elbow and inserting herself into the conversation, breaking their focus on each other. "You know, it's a funny story..."

"No it's not," Santana cut her off, shaking her head at her. She gave her a look that clearly said _Shut up, Rachel _as she shoved the tulips at her. "Why don't you go put these in some water?"

Looking thwarted of her chance to be the center of attention, Rachel gave an offended "Fine," and headed toward the kitchen.

They smiled at each other again, with a bit less intensity this time. The spell had been broken.

With Rachel out of the room, Kurt seemed to feel awkward. As if trying to find something to do with himself, he clasped his hands together and exclaimed, "The sofa bed!" He moved back into the living room and started pulling the cushions off the couch. "You must be exhausted."

"Yeah, sort of." Brittany picked her bags up again and carried them out of the entryway. Too late, Santana realized she should have grabbed one. "I got up at three in the morning yesterday, because John said he wanted to leave early. But by early, he meant eight."

Glancing at the clock, Santana saw that it was now 2:30, which meant that Brittany had been awake for almost twenty-four hours. In a strange coincidence, this was approximately the same time she herself had first arrived at the apartment, months before.

"Before I forget, that guy in the recliner in the downstairs hallway? He called me Ruby, and... he said I owed him money."

"Yeah, that's just Pete," Santana told her. "He lives on the ground floor, but he likes to keep his chair in the hallway so he can watch people come and go. He thinks everyone in the building is a dead person from his past."

"I'm his third grade teacher, Mr. Wexler," Kurt volunteered, pushing the coffee table back to make way for the bed. "And I'm not entirely positive, but I _think _I may have molested him."

"Yikes," Brittany sympathized.

Santana added in a quick undertone, without making eye contact, "And Rachel and I are his lesbian aunts who died in the sixties."

"Olive and Greta," Rachel supplied in a chipper voice, coming back into the room now with the vase full of flowers. She set it in the middle of the coffee table and straightened up, adding, "You wouldn't think so, but we're a surprisingly good couple."

Brittany's expression at this bit of information was unreadable. "Okay," she said slowly.

"It's only for like five minutes a day, it's no big deal," Santana threw in, embarrassed. "Pete's insane. You just have to humor him." She hadn't thought about how bizarre this stuff would sound to someone who wasn't used to it. And she suddenly wanted nothing more in the world than for Kurt and Rachel both to get the hell out of this room.

"Your chamber, m'lady," Kurt said now, gesturing in a gallant way to the fold-out bed. Santana cringed. Why was he acting so weird? Or was he always like this, and she'd just stopped noticing? He brushed off the mattress, saying in a flustered way, "These are just potato chip crumbs, not mouse droppings." He leaned down, peering a little closer. "Actually this one might be a mouse dropping. Santana, I think you may have put the sheets on too early."

"I'll change them," she said, giving him a pointed look. _Please go away._

In a worried voice, Rachel said, "But we don't have any other sheets."

_Oh for the love of all that is holy, they're never going to leave. _She could feel a rant coming on, backbuilding like a tornado.

"Guys, it's fine," Brittany said in her mellow way, not bothered in the slightest. "My mom made me bring a sleeping bag. It's, like, a condom for you body. So I'm good."

"Oh Brittany," Rachel said with a perplexed smile. "You haven't changed a bit."

And since the two of them clearly weren't going to get any hints that weren't communicated in sitcom shorthand, Santana cleared her throat in a loud, meaningful way. "_Ahem_."

Finally, Kurt seemed to catch on. "Would you look at the time!"

"Yes, it really is quite late," Rachel agreed, emphasizing this statement with a very loud, very fake yawn. Any chance for a performance.

"Well, we should probably... leave you kids alone." Kurt gave a stagy chuckle.

"Sleep tight," Rachel added with an exaggerated wink. Then Kurt led her out of the room by the arm, the two of them self-conscious and smiling at an invisible audience as if they were exiting a scene in a play.

"Night," Brittany said. She watched them go, the dubious expression on her face seeming to say _Oh yeah. Now I remember what they're like._

"Sorry," Santana grimaced, shutting her eyes in relief for a second when they finally had the room to themselves. "I'm so used to their chronic idiocy that I'm probably kind of numb to it by now. But I promise we'll ditch 'em tomorrow."

"Cool." Brittany smiled. "But still... I'm glad I made you live here. Even though that thing they just did reminded me of the scary Bible puppets from Sunday school."

"You didn't _make _me live here," she insisted, trying to preserve a bit of her autonomy. But they gave each other amused looks and Santana rolled her eyes a little as if to acknowledge, _Okay, we both know that's not true._

Brittany moved over to the sofa bed and sat down on the edge of it. She pulled off her scarf and hat, causing stray wisps of her hair to fly upwards in the dry air. Then she peeled off her coat and laid it aside. Santana realized she should have already offered to take it, to hang it up for her. There were too many things to remember with this whole hostess business. She was sure it wouldn't be the last thing she'd screw up.

"So, um..." she said, still standing. She squeezed her hands together nervously and then used them to gesture. "I could give you the grand tour, but other than the kitchen, this is pretty much it. The bathroom's the first door in the hallway, on the right. Oh, and there's a balcony. But unless you enjoy freezing your ass off it's pretty much useless at this time of year."

Brittany glanced around her, taking in the living room. "It's smaller than I thought."

And though there was no judgment implied in the words, Santana couldn't help but feel just the tiniest bit defensive, which was stupid, she knew. It _was _small - there was no getting around that fact. But despite the size, she was a little proud of the room itself. Every single object in it represented a battle won or lost by one faction or another. For every wall hanging and plant and lamp that made it in, there had been compromises and bribes and outright threats. Nothing really matched, yet somehow, it all came together to form a whole greater than the parts.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "But you get used to it. And actually, for the price, it could be a lot worse. We got lucky. Or, _they _did."

"I like it, though," Brittany added. "It still seems so crazy that you guys live here all by yourselves." Her voice drifted upward at the end like it was a question. "It's like... a sleepover with no parents."

"Pretty much," she agreed. Wasn't that kind of the definition of adult life in general? A sleepover from which mom never came to pick you up. She took a few steps toward the kitchen. "So, do you want something to eat? Rachel made this casserole thing..."

"I'm fine." She pressed her lips together, looking coy. "_Santana_. Would you come over here and sit down? You're making me dizzy."

She hesitated, then shrugged slightly and said, "Yeah. Sorry." It was just that she didn't trust herself. Now that the two of them were alone, she felt like she needed to be on guard every second to keep up her end of the bargain they'd struck, the one that required them to behave maturely and take things slow. Not to mention, she felt awkward in a way she'd never felt around Brittany before. She hadn't expected that. They'd been away from each other too long.

Lowering herself onto the edge of the fold-out bed next to her, but not too close, she said, "I just can't believe you're really here." Then she realized, "I said that already, didn't I?"

Brittany smiled, radiating calmness. She seemed to find the nervousness cute. With a gentle touch, she reached up and stroked downward along Santana's head. "Your hair," she said, amused.

"_God_." It suddenly occurred to her that she'd been sleeping on the couch for the past few hours. She raised her own hand and tried to smooth down the worst of it. "I must look like I just climbed out of a Van Halen video."

"You look beautiful."

As usual, Brittany's words were uttered with such quiet, simple sincerity that she couldn't help but believe them.

Now they fell silent and just gazed at each other, drinking one another in. Santana knew it must be her imagination, but she thought she could actually feel heat radiating from Brittany's skin, even across the few feet that separated them. It was like there was a current humming between their bodies. She felt such a powerful urge to lean in that she dug her nails into the palm of her hand to keep herself from doing it. But to her surprise, it was Brittany who suddenly seemed to force herself to look away, drawing in a shaky breath. She looked like she was suffering vertigo.

Santana watched her, concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She stared down at her lap. "I'm just tired And... I got a little seasick earlier, on the way here."

Confused, Santana asked, "When were you on a boat?"

"I wasn't. I just think it sounds better than _carsick_. It's more sophisticated, you know?"

"Definitely," she agreed with a smile, and her heart gave a funny little kick, because dear God she'd missed those weird observations. Then, realizing that Brittany had now twice remarked on being tired, she stood up and said, "Okay, um... I should let you get some sleep. We'll have plenty of time to catch up tomorrow, especially after we get rid of Phil and Lil."

"Sounds good. We can open our Christmas presents, too."

"Oh, right. Christmas." _Shit_. She'd forgotten all about that. Thanks to her parents showing up in the city just before winter break with a "surprise" announcement that they'd booked a Caribbean cruise, she felt like she'd pretty much skipped over Christmas this year. All she'd wanted was to go home to Lima to see Brittany, but instead she'd spent the holiday next to a pool reading an outdated issue of Vogue while her dad slept off a mojito hangover and her mom flirted with the Filipino deckhands.

"You sure you don't need anything?" she asked again, feeling like there was something more she should do here. Things felt incomplete.

"I'm good. Really." Brittany gave her a reassuring look.

"Okay. Well... Night." Santana started to leave the room, but it felt too strange to just walk out like that. So she bent toward her, intending one of those chaste simultaneous cheek pecks that she'd seen maiden sisters give each other in Jane Austen movies. But thanks to the dry air, the second their skin came in contact there was a tiny _pop _of static electricity. They both jerked back, startled, laughing a little. Santana raised her hand to the still-stinging spot on her cheek, embarrassed. Apparently the universe was trying to give her a warning sign. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Brittany said. "I kind of like it when that happens."

"I'll see you in the morning," she said, forcing herself to leave the room. But in the doorway she couldn't resist one more look. Then she broke her gaze away and headed toward the hallway and her own room.

Once inside, she shoved her textbooks off the bed without bothering to turn on any lights, then climbed in. She lay there on her back, rigid, knowing there was no way in hell she was going to be able to get to sleep right away. Her emotions were a roil of conflicting desires, and she couldn't shake the notion that she'd forgotten to do something important. Or that they'd forgotten to say something. What was it? Something about the entire encounter just felt _off_. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was, and for some reason, it made her feel like crying. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. If this was what being an adult meant, then she wanted nothing to do with it.

There wasn't anything to be done about it now, though. They'd have to figure it out tomorrow. She forced herself to shut her eyes and take deep breaths, trying to relax.

But even through her closed lids, she was aware after about ten minutes of a sudden shaft of muted light in the room. She opened her eyes to find that the door was ajar just a crack. Then Brittany came in and closed it behind her, plunging the room into darkness again.

Santana sat up, wondering if something was wrong. "Is everything...?"

But before she could complete the sentence, her words were cut off by a kiss so powerful it knocked her backwards. Even through her surprise, she gave into it without hesitation, kissing back as if her life depended on it. _Oh, okay. This is what we forgot to do._ She lowered herself onto the pillow, and Brittany followed, climbing on top of her, their lips not breaking apart even once. One kiss melted into another and it seemed to go on forever as they re-learned every single detail of each other, as if this kiss could make up for the past six months through sheer, bruising intensity.

Without breaking her stride, Brittany pulled back slightly and then dropped more kisses all over her face, on her eyelids, her cheeks, her forehead - ravenously, as if determined to cover every square inch. Then she began to trace a path downward, along her neck. Santana felt her t-shirt pulled up and over her head, felt her entire body heat up as Brittany lavished attention on her breasts and then continued down along her stomach. Her movements were quick and purposeful, but not frantic. There was a sense that she had all the time in the world, yet also a sense that she'd been waiting too long already.

_Oh my God_, Santana thought, now feeling hot breath tickle along her waistband, just below her navel. Somewhere far in the back of her mind she knew that she should probably stop this. Instead, she lifted her hips a little so that Brittany could more easily pull off her sweat pants and underwear in one graceful motion. Her kisses picked up where they'd left off and then continued lower, and as Santana's knees parted like water, she had a split second to be grateful that she'd kept up with waxing before all rational thought flew from her mind and she became nothing but a writhing mass of sensation. _Holy. sweet. hell. _How was it possible she'd forgotten what this felt like?

Her head tilted back against the pillow, and she lost all sense of time. The heat of Brittany's mouth was searing in the cool air of the room, and her hips seemed to move against her of their own volition. Her breathing grew more and more ragged even as she became aware of the need to try to stay quiet. She could feel herself beginning to shake as she neared the edge, and when her back finally arched and she shoved herself up against Brittany, she gave a muffled moan through clenched teeth and then pressed her own arm against her mouth, biting it to keep herself from crying out.

Trembling as she came down from the peak, she was vaguely aware of Brittany now kissing her way in a slow, meandering path back up along her stomach. She stopped when she got to her chest, resting her head there against her heart, letting her warm weight settle on top of her. Lying there quietly, she waited for Santana's shuddering breathing to return to normal, for her heart rate to slow down.

Santana ran her hands through Brittany's hair, letting them tangle and get stuck. And this familiar motion caused a wave of possessiveness to rise up in her, a wave that was tinged with so much love and sweetness, but also so much uncertainty, that it made her feel lightheaded. Her ears were ringing a little. But her sense that something had been left undone, unsaid, had evaporated. Now everything felt right. Perfect, even. Exactly how it was supposed to be between them.

At the same time, though, she realized that their agreement to take things slow, tentative, was effectively destroyed. So much for _that _brilliant idea. It was safe to say that the last fifteen minutes had blown it to hell and back.

Brittany seemed to be reading her mind. "Whoops," she said now, as if she was unsure exactly how this had happened. As if maybe she'd been headed toward the bathroom, after all, and had just happened to stumble and land with her head between Santana's legs.

Unable to help herself, Santana dissolved into laughter at this, laughter that threatened to turn into hysteria in her current state. She pressed her face against the top of Brittany's head in order to muffle it, burying her nose in her hair. When she could speak, she whispered against her, "How did you even know which room was mine?"

"I didn't," she whispered back. She raised her head and delivered another soft kiss to the hollow of Santana's throat, then added, "But it smelled like a girl room. And I figured Rachel probably would have stopped me by now."

Santana laughed again, and then this laugh turned into a muted squeal as Brittany all of a sudden used her strength to grasp her and quickly roll her over on top of her own body, so that their positions were now reversed; the unspoken signal that meant _Your turn_. They grinned at each other in the darkness. Wasting no time, she yanked Brittany's sweater off and immediately began kissing downwards. Screw maturity. Maybe moving this fast was a bad idea, but if it was, being wrong had never felt more right.

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><p>On the other side of the thin dividing wall, poor Kurt lay with a pillow clamped against his ears and a traumatized expression on his face, praying for sleep to come.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Sorry this update took so long! It would have taken even longer, but I decided to again split the chapter into 2 parts. My preference is for long, cohesive chapters with a clear beginning, middle & end, but I have a feeling most people would prefer choppier, more frequent, updates. So I'll finish up Brittany's first day in the next one - it'll be like the 2nd half of this "episode."**

**A few people asked how long this fic would likely be, and I'm not 100% sure. The initial outline was about 10 chapters, but if each one ends up doubling or tripling like these first few have, it may be closer to 20 or 30. (And if anyone has ideas for things they'd like to see, feel free to PM me; I'm open to suggestions. I have an overall arc planned, but there's room for extras.)**

**Thank you thank you thank you, so much, to everyone who reviewed. I honestly didn't know if anyone would enjoy this somewhat unusual idea for a fic, and I couldn't be more thrilled to see that so many of you are actually going to read it. It means more to me than I can even tell you. These characters have captured my imagination, and I'm having so much fun (probably too much) with this!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

_Lima - June_

The clouds in the west glowed around the edges as the last of the daylight faded, the sky beyond shading into pink and then a tranquil blue in the east, where dusk had already fallen. On this evening only a few days past the summer solstice, Santana sat on the McKinley bleachers, watching day battle it out with the coming night. She inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass, then checked the time on her phone. Trying to stay patient, she stretched out on the metal bench, which was still warm from the afternoon's heat. Distant voices drifted over from the school parking lot, where the last of the attendees of this evening's special Cheerios induction ceremony were lingering.

She closed her eyes and tried to take advantage of the rare tranquility, but just seconds after she did, she heard someone approaching, light steps clanging up the empty metal stands. She sat up and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. "Finally. What took you so long?"

"My parents wanted to take some pictures." Brittany came toward her, then turned and sat sideways, straddling the bleachers two rows below Santana. "They wanted to get some of you, too. But you disappeared like the Road Runner when the Coyote's after him."

"Yeah, sorry. I'm not really in the picture-taking mood. Didn't they get enough at graduation? It's only been three weeks."

"But this is the last time we'll be wearing the uniforms. Once we take 'em off today... that's it." She shrugged, matter-of-fact. "Never again."

"I know, I was just thinking about that." Santana looked down at her uniform, the familiar way it clung to her curves, almost as if it was a part of her own skin by now. She smoothed down the pleated skirt, a little sadly. "It's kind of depressing, right?"

Brittany thought about this. "Maybe we could still wear them in private sometimes. Just for fun."

Santana glanced up at her, intrigued and wondering if this potential _fun _was of the nature she was hoping it was, and she was glad to see from Brittany's sly expression that she'd guessed right. She returned the look, with a suggestive smile. "Oh, I am _so _going to hold you to that."

They both watched for a few minutes as a group of new freshman football players began stacking the metal folding chairs that had been laid out in rows on the field. With Coach Beiste barking orders at them and giving shrill blasts of her whistle, the boys had the intimidated appearance of a chain gang.

"What time are you leaving for Cleveland tomorrow?" Santana asked.

"Early. My dad wants to take the back roads. He says the terrorists are more likely to attack the interstate."

Santana scoffed a little. "Yeah, well, I kind of doubt the _Lima-to-Cleveland route _would be their first target... but I guess you never know."

Brittany turned to look at her, searchingly. "Is everything okay? You seem sort of bummed."

She waited a second before answering, as if considering whether she wanted to be honest or not. "My Aunt Nina is in town. Did you see her in the audience?"

"I think so. She looks just like your mom, only with bigger boobs."

"That's her." Santana rolled her eyes a little. "And needless to say, those aren't real."

"I thought you liked that part of your family?" Brittany said.

"I do. Or, I _did_. But do you know what she said to me this morning? She said that she went through a 'lesbian phase' in high school, too. She even thought she was in love with her best friend. But then she got over it... and she thinks I will too." Santana shook her head a little, still indignant, hours later. "Can you believe that? I am so fucking tired of not being taken seriously."

Brittany reached up and gave Santana's foot, which was balanced on the row between them, a sympathetic squeeze. "You shouldn't let them get to you. They don't have any idea what they're talking about."

"I know that. But still... what do I have to do to prove I'm actually gay? Stop shaving my armpits and wear Birkenstocks everywhere? Buy a Dodge Ram?"

"Well... I hope you don't do that first part, because that sounds gross. But the truck could be kind of sexy." She smiled a little, coaxingly, as if trying to cheer her up, and Santana couldn't resist smiling back.

"Maybe someday."

Brittany stared down at the football field, then bit her lip in a pensive way. After a few seconds of hesitation, she said, "Can I ask you something? And you have to promise you won't take it the wrong way, because I'm just curious. That's all."

Intrigued but a little nervous, Santana said, "Go ahead."

"Have you ever had, you know, _feelings_... for other girls, besides me? And I don't mean Kim Kardashian, because even my cat thinks she's hot. I mean, like, other girls that we've seen. In real life."

"Well, _yeah_... of course," Santana said, looking uncomfortable. Quickly, she added, "And I'm not gonna tell you who, so don't ask."

"What if I guess? Will you tell me if I'm right?"

"_No_. So don't bother!" The idea seemed horrifying to her.

"Okay, fine." Brittany said, amused now. She raised her eyebrows, trying not to laugh. "_Jeez_."

The awkwardness averted, Santana tried to make her voice return to normal. "Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"I've just been thinking about next semester. And, hear me out. I know it's gonna be so hard for us to be away from each other. But it's like, when I was four, I decided that strawberries were my favorite fruit, right? So I ate them with everything. I ate them in cereal, I ate them on sandwiches, I put them in Spaghettios... I had to have them with every meal. And one day my mom just lost it, and she said I couldn't have any more until I ate some other fruit, too. And you know what, I'm glad I did. Because strawberries are totally still my favorite, but... I wouldn't know that for sure if I hadn't tried all that other stuff."

"Well, strawberries are my favorite too," Santana said slowly, already unnerved by this speech. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm just saying that... when you're in New York, if you happen to see a kiwi, or you know, a pineapple or something that looks good... maybe you should try it." She gave a tiny shrug. "Just to see what it's like. Because if all you've ever had is strawberries... how do you really know you like them best?"

"And the thought of me... _trying other fruit_ doesn't bother you at all?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted. "But I think it could be good for you. For _us_."

Santana thought about this for a second, her face expressing her misgivings. "What if I don't want to try anything else? What if the thought of anything besides strawberries makes me get that pre-hurling taste in my mouth? I mean, who knows where some of that stuff even comes from. It could be rotten in the middle. It could be covered in pesticide from some third world country."

"Well, I'm not saying buy it off the street," Brittany said in a reasonable voice.

Giving her a baffled look, Santana said, "Wait, just so I'm clear, we're not talking about _actual _fruit right now, are we?"

Brittany considered this, seeming uncertain. "I'm not sure anymore. Metaphors are confusing."

After a few seconds of mulling over the implications of this conversation, Santana seemed to come to a decision. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. "Britt," she began in a tentative way, moving down from the higher row of bleachers so that the two of them now sat next to each other. She pulled her sunglasses from the top of her head and fiddled with them nervously. "I need to ask you something. Something that... I should have asked a long time ago. But I was too afraid to."

Silent, Brittany waited.

Santana opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to freeze in her throat. Looking terrified, she pressed her lips together and stared down at her lap, then glanced up again and forced herself to continue. "Are you in love with me?"

In an earnest, reassuring voice, Brittany told her, "I love you more than anyone. I've told you that, I don't know how many times."

"Yeah, I know," Santana said, nodding, trying not to sound impatient. "I know you love me. But... what I'm asking is, are you _in love_ with me?"

"What's the difference?" Brittany appeared honestly perplexed by the question. "Love is love."

"I don't know how to explain it," she pressed on. "But there is a difference. And... when you're in love with someone, you just _know_." She stared at her, searching, desperate, waiting for the right answer.

But Brittany broke their gaze and looked down at her hands, troubled. Santana's heart sank.

After a long pause, Brittany said just barely above a whisper, "But what if you don't? What if you don't know for sure?"

And there it was; the confirmation of her fears, the reason she'd been avoiding the question to begin with. _Why did you ask? Why did you make her say it out loud? You could have gone your entire life without making her say it out loud_. In a voice that was almost inaudible, she said, "It's okay. I know it's hard to..." she trailed off, not finishing the sentence. "It's okay."

Blinking back tears, she turned her gaze to the football field again. Over in the end zone, there was a trio of newly inducted freshman Cheerios, 14-year-old girls wearing the uniform for the very first time today. They were halfheartedly practicing routines and laughing with each other, seeming reluctant to leave. She watched them, feeling a pang of jealousy at how young they were, how new all of this was for them, how the entire four years of high school stretched out before them like a blank canvas. But she also had the sense that she should give them some kind of warning. Because whatever they were expecting it to be like, it almost certainly wasn't going to be like that.

Brittany watched them too, not speaking. Finally, with an apologetic air, she seemed about to say something else, but Santana cut her off.

"Damn it," she muttered, checking the time again. "I've got to go. I need to slip some extra gin into my dad's martini before dinner. A few more nights, and I think I can convince him that city college is just as good as Bryn Mawr." She tried to make her voice sound normal, knowing she probably wasn't pulling it off very well.

"Wait," Brittany said, standing up with her. "Are you mad at me?"

"No. Of course not," she said, facing her. "I'm glad you were honest."

"Santana," she said in a pleading tone. "Everything's been so good lately. Please don't make this more complicated than it is. I didn't say that I'm not, I just said that I don't _know_." She paused, then added, "You know, you'd be happier if you were like me, and you didn't think so much. Thinking ruins everything."

She forced a small smile. "Maybe you're right." Then she turned and headed down the row, descending the steps of the bleachers. Brittany followed her. The light had almost completely faded now, the sky that particular shade of cerulean that marks a summer night just before dark. Over the shadowy field, a few fireflies winked on and off.

Brittany said, "You're not gonna leave for New York before I get back in August, are you? I want to see you before you go."

Back on the ground, she stopped and turned around. "No. I'll wait til you're home. I promise," she told her, already knowing that she would probably break that promise.

"Okay. Good." She came toward her for a kiss, which Santana returned, even though at the moment the touch of Brittany's lips on her own made her heart hurt. She pulled away before it went on too long and reached up for a hug instead.

"Have fun with your grandparents," she said over her shoulder, though the bland statement didn't at all match the pained expression on her face.

"I will," Brittany said as they stepped back. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but Santana turned and started toward the parking lot, walking quickly. It was clear she needed to be alone. Brittany watched her, regretful. "See you in six weeks," she called after her.

Santana didn't respond, other than to reach up and pull the rubber band out of her Cheerios ponytail one last time. As she headed down the shadowy path behind the bleachers and toward the parking lot, she shook her hair out and let it partially obscure her face, as well as the tears that she now couldn't hold back for another second.

* * *

><p><em>Six Months Later - New York City<em>

She lay on her side, trying to remain as still as possible. It was late morning, and the light that filtered through the one bedroom window was gray and gloomy, as if threatening snow. But it was enough to see by. Enough to see the tousled blonde head that rested on the pillow just a little more than a foot away from her own, enough to see the way her lashes lay against her cheeks and the way her lips curved upward just the slightest bit, as if even asleep she found the world a fundamentally benign place.

Santana lay there, watching her sleep, and tried not to think about anything. She wanted to empty her mind of all thought, of all worry, of all necessity to make any sense of the future, even the immediate future. Because Brittany had probably been right that day in June, after all. Thinking ruined everything. Right now it felt like it would be better, far wiser, to just avoid it as long as possible.

As she lay there watching her sleep, trying to match her own breathing to the deep, peaceful rhythm of Brittany's, she had the crazy wish that she could freeze this perfect little interval and remain within it. It felt safe here. If only everything could stay exactly like this, forever. But inevitably, after a few more minutes, Brittany began to stir and it was obvious she was waking up. Without knowing quite why, Santana closed her own eyes again, pretending to be asleep.

But a few seconds later, she heard a drowsy yet amused voice saying, "You're faking it."

She smiled first, giving herself away, then opened her eyes. "How can you always tell?"

"I just can." Then, sounding almost shy, she added, "Morning."

"Hi." They looked at each other for a few seconds, then moved their heads together on the pillow for a light, somewhat tentative kiss.

Pulling back, Brittany cast her eyes briefly around the room, seeing it for the first time in the light. "Santana. We have to talk about something."

Looking concerned and a bit caught-off-guard, Santana said, "Okay." _God, already? _she thought. _ We can't even have five minutes?_

But with an expression that clearly wasn't serious, the only thing Brittany said was, "This _bed_."

Realizing she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion, she laughed a little, relieved now. "I know, I know. It's ridiculous. The last time I slept in a bed this small, it had Power Rangers sheets on it. But it's the only thing that'll fit in here."

"Well, I'm pretty sure the sofa bed is bigger, so..." Brittany said in a flirtatious way. "Maybe I'll invite you over to my place sometime."

"That would be great."

They moved toward each other for another kiss, this one a bit more daring. Santana closed her eyes as Brittany reached up and stroked her thumb softly down the side of her face. The tenderness of the gesture and all the sense memories it reignited made it feel as though her skin was only just now coming back to life after a long period of dormancy. Like part of her had been hibernating for months.

She started to return the motion, but they were interrupted by the sound of Kurt, coming out of his own room next to Santana's and singing as he walked down the hall.

_"Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome,"_

_Fremde, etranger, stranger..._

_Gluklich zu sehen, je suis enchante..."_

His voice tapered off as he moved toward the other end of the apartment. Santana rolled her eyes, annoyed, waiting for the sound to die away. "You'll have to get used to that," she said.

Brittany, to her credit, didn't seem particularly bothered.

"So..." Propping herself up on her elbow, Santana looked down at her in a contemplative way. "What do you want to do today? I cleared my schedule. I thought maybe we could hit some of the touristy spots that I haven't gotten around to yet. If you want."

"Yeah, totally. I love being a tourist. You get to wear fanny packs and ask strangers to take pictures of you." Brittany thought for a second. "What about Coney Island? That's supposed to be fun."

"It is," Santana agreed, "But... I think that's more of a summer thing."

"You can't go there in the winter?"

"I guess you could, but it would just feel wrong." She tried to think of an example. "Like... eating pumpkin pie in April."

"I never eat pumpkin pie," Brittany said firmly. "The inside of a pumpkin is a jack-o-lantern's brain. Why would you make a pie out of that? It's gross."

With a smile that she hoped wasn't overly smitten, Santana leaned down and nuzzled into the spot where Brittany's neck met her shoulder, breathing in her scent. "I missed you so much."

"Me too." Brittany put her arms around her, as if inviting her to stay there as long as she wanted. For a minute they lay without moving, pressed as close as they could get against each other. But then for the second time their peace was disturbed, this time by Rachel coming out of her own room.

_"Suddenly Seymoooour!_

_Is standin' beside you_

_You don't need no makeup, don't have to PRETEEENNND!"_

When the overly dramatic singing faded away, Santana gave a heavy sigh. "Sorry. I promise weekdays aren't so bad. Once they're off to the University of Gay, I usually have the place to myself for a few hours." She tried to recollect what they'd been talking about before she'd gotten distracted by Brittany's adorableness. "So, what's something else you might want to do today?"

"Hmm... I don't know. Maybe we could take one of those carriage rides in Central Park." As she said this she softly, almost unconsciously, traced along the lines of Santana's palm.

Intoxicated by Brittany's touch, she tried, with great effort, to keep her wits about her. "That sounds really romantic," she said with an air of regret. "But if we did that, Rachel would crucify us. Seriously, don't get her started on the damn horses. It's like a two-hour lecture. With a Power Point presentation."

"All right," Brittany replied, seeming just the tiniest bit miffed. She turned over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, as if hoping for inspiration. "Well, what about... ice skating in Rockefeller Plaza? I always wanted to do that." She added, "Unless, of course, Rachel has a problem with that too. Because, I don't know, maybe the ice feels victimized by the skates or something."

"No, that sounds perfect," Santana said, eager to show her enthusiasm for this third suggestion. "Ice skating it is. Except... I should tell you, I've never really done it before."

"You're an ice skating virgin?" Brittany looked like she found this surprising, but also cute. "I'll teach you, then."

"Okay," she said, grinning at her. "I can't wait."

She let herself be pulled down for another kiss, and this one began to get more heated. Santana breathed in sharply through her nose, moving her hands up gingerly under Brittany's shirt, running her fingertips over her stomach muscles. She gripped her around the waist and then shifted her weight, placing one knee on the other side of Brittany's hips, in effect climbing on top of her.

Then suddenly, as if on cue, from two different places in the apartment at once came loud, insistent, overlapping strains of Broadway.

_"Suddenly Seymoooour! is here to proviiiiide you-"_

_"Im Cabaret, au Cabaret, to Caber-"_

_"-Sweet understaaanding_

_Seymour's my friend!"_

She let her head drop against Brittany's shoulder for a second, shaking it a little. Underneath her, Santana felt her sigh in frustration, echoing her own feelings. She raised her head and looked down at her, saying dryly, "We should probably just get up."

"Yeah," Brittany agreed.

* * *

><p>Rachel bustled around the kitchen, humming to herself, keeping a sharp eye on the door that led to the hallway. Every once in a while she approached it, impatient to see if anyone was coming. Finally, her efforts were rewarded when she spotted her intended prey.<p>

"Brittany!" she exclaimed.

Brittany paused outside the door, and seemed to be considering a retreat, but it was too late for that. She'd already made eye contact. So she continued on into the room, wary.

"You're just the person I wanted to see," Rachel went on brightly. "Sit, sit." She held out a chair for her. "I made breakfast."

"Wow," she said, sitting down. "Thanks, I guess."

Sitting down across from her, Rachel clasped her hands together on the table and stared at Brittany with an avid, expectant face. "Now. I want to hear everything... every little detail."

Taken aback, Brittany hesitated. "Um... okay." She glanced behind her, toward the hallway, and then lowered her voice a bit to say, "But I'm not really sure if Santana would be comfortable with that."

"What?" Rachel said. Then, realization dawning, she clarified, "No, _no_. Not that." Awkward now, she added, "I.. I mean, I'm sure it was lovely, and I have no doubt you'd describe it very well... but, actually, what I meant was, I want to hear every detail about how New Directions is faring in my absence."

"How they're faring?" Brittany repeated.

"Of course, I understand if it's hard to talk about." She reached across and patted her hand, sympathetic. "Take your time."

Now Santana made her appearance, and seemed to sum up at a glance exactly what was going on. "Oh, God. Please tell me you're not interrogating her at the crack of dawn, Marcia Clark."

"Santana, it's almost noon. And this is nothing more than old friends catching up. Please stay out of it," Rachel said crisply. Then she turned in her chair and said as if she'd just remembered, "Oh, I made muffins. I know they're your favorite."

Santana caught Brittany's eye and seemed to consider making some kind of off-color response to this, but it was too early, and Rachel was too clueless for it to be worth it. So she poured herself a cup of coffee instead.

"Anyway, tell me what's been happening," Rachel continued, turning her attention back to Brittany, who was reading the label on the vegan butter with a confused look. "Have they got their set list for Regionals? Because I'd be happy to act as a sort of long-distance consultant, for a small fee. But more importantly, who misses me the most? What are they saying? If they're planning some kind of tribute for when I come home for spring break, it's okay if you want to give me a heads-up... I'm very good at acting surprised."

"Well, actually... everyone's been super busy," Brittany said, giving up on making sense of the butter and setting it back on the table. "There hasn't been much time to miss anyone."

"Oh," Rachel said, obviously disappointed. "I suppose busy is good."

"Definitely," Brittany agreed, nodding. "I'm telling you, Regionals this year? It's gonna be so amazing. I hate that I'll have to miss it. For the first time in New Directions history, the lineup is all rap."

"_Rap_," Rachel repeated, looking vaguely troubled, but trying not to show it. "Really? The entire thing?"

"Mm-hm. Yeah, Sugar and Tina are doing this insanely cool mash-up of Fergie's _London Bridge _and Lil' Kim's _How Many Licks_. When I left they were just putting the finishing touches on it. The choreography really tells a story."

Looking baffled and increasingly alarmed, Rachel turned around and demanded, "Santana, are you hearing this?"

"I'm standing right here," she said, sounding bored. "Britt, you want hot chocolate?"

"Do you have marshmallows?"

"Let me check."

Ignoring the interruption, and making a great effort to sound reasonable and calm, Rachel said, "Brittany, don't you think those songs seem just a bit... _inappropriate _for competition numbers?"

"No, I think they're gonna be awesome. But that's just the first number." She selected a muffin from the basket in the center of the table, picked a blueberry out and popped it in her mouth, then continued. "After that the boys come out, and they're performing this epic re-enactment of the early nineties east coast-west coast hip hop wars. Blaine's doing the part of the Notorious B.I.G., and my homie Artie will of course be portraying one Tupac Shakur. And then at the end they kill each other. It's gonna be, like, the best Regionals ever." She ate another blueberry, watching Rachel for her reaction.

Rachel's face was a mask of bewilderment. Without seeming to realize it, she was clutching a butter knife so tightly that her knuckles were white. Santana reached over and took it from her, just to be on the safe side.

"I have to say, and I'm not trying to sit in judgment here..." Rachel went on, making one last effort to stay calm. "But this all just sounds like a _terrible _idea. I realize it must be difficult without my expert guidance, but have they all lost their minds? What does Mr. Schue have to say about this?"

Unconcerned and seemingly oblivious to Rachel's distress, Brittany said, "Oh, he's totally on board. He says you can't get the judges' attention unless you're willing to take some risks. In fact, when I left, he was in the middle of teaching everyone all these badass gang signs. Like, this one..." She put the muffin down and performed an elaborate, complicated hand motion, finishing by smacking her chest in a confrontational way. "It means, approximately, _Your mother gives handjobs at a very steep discount_.'"

Rachel's mouth fell open in shock. "Oh my God," she cried, horrified and no longer trying to disguise it. She stood up so fast her chair nearly fell over and spoke directly to Santana, as if somehow she was responsible for all this. "This is a travesty. Do you see what's happening here? It hasn't even been a year yet, and they are already tarnishing my legacy!"

"No, I'm with you, Thumbelina, it's an outrage," Santana said in a calm voice. Locating the marshmallows, she pulled them down from the cabinet and looked at Rachel. "In fact, if I were you, I wouldn't waste any more time. Because every minute they spend on that jump-the-shark routine, those prep school boybots are one step closer to getting their hands on that shiny, glittering trophy. A couple months from now, nobody in Ohio will even remember who Rachel Berry _was_."

"You're right." She nodded, a manic gleam in her eyes as she absorbed the implications of this. "This is urgent. I have to call Mr. Schuester _right now_!" Without another word, she stalked off toward her bedroom.

Santana and Brittany exchanged conspiratorial looks, both of them trying not to laugh. "Okay, I've got to ask," Santana said, when Rachel was out of earshot. "Was _any _of that actually true?"

"Just the part about no one missing her." Brittany bit her lip in amusement, and then seemed to feel a bit guilty. "Okay, that's not true either. They do miss her, a lot." She added, "And Kurt. And _you_."

"Right," Santana said, rolling her eyes a little. "Who would miss me, besides you?"

"Everyone does."

She held Brittany's sincere gaze for a second, then looked away, feeling her cheeks heat up just the slightest bit, thankful as always that her blushes were invisible. She busied herself fixing the instant hot chocolate, and when the microwave timer dinged, she put one giant marshmallow into the cup and set it on the table in front of Brittany with a flourish. "Ta-da. Sorry it's just the cheap kind."

"I love the cheap kind."

Santana sat down across from her in Rachel's vacated seat, the two of them sipping from their respective mugs. They looked at each other and then both seemed, at the same time, to comprehend the newness and strangeness of this moment, here in the kitchen. This simple morning ritual, bland as it was, signified so much. This is what it felt like to be a couple, to be adults, to be living with the person you loved and sharing even the smallest, most boring domestic moments with them. As the truth of this realization permeated Santana's consciousness, a brief look of fear flickered across her face, but she pushed it back into the depths. _Don't think. Not yet._

Just then, from the hallway, there was the sound of a door opening and Kurt's voice rang out. "Shower's free!"

Feeling generous, Santana told Brittany, "You can have it first, if you want."

"Okay." She took another sip of her hot chocolate, and then an idea seemed to occur to her. "But, you know... it might save time if we just took one together."

With a sly look, Santana pretended to consider the logic of this. "And water, too," she added.

"True." Brittany nodded. "It would be very environmentally conscious of us."

They smiled in anticipation, then without wasting another minute stood up. With muffled giggles and barely restrained eagerness, they pulled each other toward the bathroom, leaving their mugs abandoned on the kitchen table.

* * *

><p>Kurt sat in front of his bedroom vanity mirror, wearing nothing but underwear, applying moisturizer to his face. To his reflection, he recited lines from his Cabaret <em>Willkomen <em>monologue. "Meine Damen und Herren, Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen!" Then he repeated the words, louder, in an attempt to block out the disturbing sounds that were now emanating from the bathroom, which happened to be directly across the hall from his room.

"Guden abend, bon soir, good evening," he intoned theatrically. He cringed as a particularly sharp moan reached his ears. "We geht's?" he persevered, doing his best to ignore them. "Comment ca va? Do you feel good? I bet you do!" He tried it again, thickening the French accent on the last part, tilting his head in a debonair manner and checking the reflection to see how it looked. "I bet you do." From the shower now came a loud gasp and a muted thump, as though someone had thrown out an arm to keep from falling down.

"I give up," he muttered with a disdainful look. Now seemed like the perfect time to turn the hair dryer on.

He took an extra long time drying his hair, running the risk of making it brittle and fried, something that normally would have been against everything he stood for. But it was worth it, since by the time he turned the thing off, the blessed quiet seemed to indicate that all hanky panky was momentarily finished. In fact, he could hear another hair dryer running in Santana's room next door.

Hesitantly, still halfway expecting them to turn even the process of personal grooming into something sexual, he began styling his hair. When no suspicious sounds reached his ears, he returned to his monologue. "Ich bin euer Confrecier, je suis votre compere... I am your host." He cleared his throat, trying it again in a more suggestive tone. "I am your host."

But before he could get any further than this, his bedroom door was unceremoniously opened, with no knocking, and Santana came in. She closed it quickly behind her, as though she wanted this visit to be a secret. She must have gotten dressed and done her makeup in record time.

"Santana!" he said in offended way, hoping she would notice his unclothed state and politely remove herself.

But her only reaction was, "Oh, _please_. You and I could take a bath together, and we'd both be so bored we wouldn't even bother to look down."

Kurt sighed. "That's true," he was forced to acknowledge. Turning back to the mirror, he asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I need to ask a favor. A big one."

"Hmph," he sniffed. "Want me to swing by the pharmacy, pick up a couple of inhalers?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "What?"

"Well, I just assumed with all the heavy breathing that's been going on around here lately, someone might be in danger of an asthma attack."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, you really want to go down _that _road, Tinky Winky? Okay, you know what, I didn't want to say anything before, because I pride myself on my tact." As she said this last bit she placed a hand on her chest in a sanctimonious manner, earning a massive eye roll from Kurt. "I tried my best to just... be the bigger person and let it slide. But do you have any idea how many nights I've lain over there in agony with my headphones blasting eighties power ballads, just to block out the sound of you entertaining your boy toy of the week?"

"I highly doubt that's true," he said, though looking uncomfortable nonetheless.

"You don't think? Hey, remember that Brazilian guy?" She leaned back against the closed door, crossing her arms in a causal stance, clearly already enjoying this. "What was his name... _Eduardo_?" At the expression on Kurt's face, she smiled. "Mm-hm, that was it. Pretty little Eduardo, with his McDreamy smile and his Anne Heche hair. That was _some _night, huh?"

Kurt shifted his gaze to the side, studiously avoiding eye contact with her.

She took a few steps toward him, pretending to be calling up details from her memory. "I never did quite figure out why he wanted you to call him _zelador_, because I'm pretty sure that means janitor. But hey, I'm open minded, no biggie. Only then, of course, things just kept getting weirder. Oh, and _louder_. In fact, as I recall, it got so loud Rachel and I had to sleep on the roof. And to be honest? We could still hear it a little." She smiled in a mock pleasant way. "I admit we thought it was kind of cute when you asked him to wear the Dalton blazer. But then things _really _started getting kinky when..."

"All right, Santana!" he cut her off, mortified. "What do you want?"

She gave him a triumphant smirk, as if to say, _Did you really think you could beat me at my own game?_

Approaching nearer, she sat down on the end of his bed, just behind his chair. "I need you to get Brittany a Christmas present. From me."

"_Christmas_?" He turned to look at her in confusion. "It's the middle of January."

"I know, but I forgot about it. I was on that stupid cruise ship. What was I supposed to do, get her a parrot keychain? Maybe a ceramic figurine of a cat wearing a bikini?" She reflected on this idea. "Actually she probably would have liked that."

Irritated by the request, Kurt said, "I have things to do today, you know."

"Like _what_?" she said with a scoff. Then, seeing the look on his face and apparently realizing this was the wrong approach to take, she backtracked. "Sorry. Look, I know it's short notice, but I wouldn't ask you if I had any other options. I'm gonna be with her all day, I won't have a chance."

Because he was wavering just the tiniest bit, she now put on her sweetest, most sincere face. "Kurt, _please_. I don't want her to think I forgot."

Sighing in defeat, because he couldn't stand to say no to her when she looked like that, and she damn well knew it, he compromised by saying, "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you!" She grabbed his head and gave him a forceful kiss on the cheek, at which he made a face and immediately began wiping off her lipstick. "You're the best boyfriend ever."

She stood and headed toward the door, adding, "Get Rachel to help, but only if you have to. I want it to be something cool, not lame. Like what _I_ would get. Not like what you guys would get."

He started to ask her how on earth he was supposed to know what that might be, but then the door opened again, and Brittany came in. "Santana? Oh. There you are."

"Doesn't anybody knock anymore?" Kurt wondered aloud to himself.

"Hey," Santana said, her entire demeanor changing instantly the second Brittany was present. She was like some sort of personality chameleon. Brittany looked toward Kurt, questioningly, and Santana seemed to realize an explanation was in order. "Oh, I was just helping him pick out his clothes." She turned to Kurt. "Seriously, Hummel, one day you're gonna have to figure out how to do this by yourself."

He shook his head in a world-weary manner, not bothering to respond to this.

Santana grasped Brittany's hands and they stood facing each other like they were waiting for the minister to pronounce them married. "You ready for your first day as a New Yorker?"

"I'm _so _ready," Brittany said. They stared at each other, the chemistry radiating from them positively nauseating in its force. It was worse than their perfume cloud. And now a kiss seemed imminent.

"Have a nice day, ladies," Kurt said, trying to hurry them along, urging them to at least consider getting out of his room.

Mercifully taking the hint, they headed out into the hall. And as they moved toward the front door, Brittany said in a not-quiet-enough voice, "Kurt's underwear are sluttier than mine."

Santana responded, laughing, "I know, right?"

"I heard that!" he called after them.

When the front door of the apartment closed, he made an effort to get back into his Cabaret persona, but it was impossible. This morning's practice was doomed. And now he was getting cold, so he decided to get dressed. First, though, thanks to Brittany's remark, he opted to change into a pair of slightly more masculine briefs. But before he could manage to get the second pair on, the door was suddenly flung wide open and Rachel burst into the room, catching him in the nude.

"I've just been on the phone to Lima for the last half hour, and guess what I found out?" she demanded, clearly outraged.

"_Rachel_! Do you mind?" He covered himself with his hands, though she didn't seem to be even remotely aware of his state of nakedness.

"They're not doing rap for Regionals!" she went on, ignoring him. "They're not doing rap _at all_!"

He looked at her like she was crazy. "What?"

"No Fergie, no Tupac, none of it! Do you see what this means, Kurt? It means we are _living with Cheerios_! Once they're in each other's zone of influence, the pack mentality takes over. How did we let this happen? Well, I'm telling you right now, we have to figure out a way to fight back! It's us against them!"

Kurt slightly relaxed his stance as she turned to go, but then tensed up again when she spun back around. "Oh, and do you know what else I learned? Mr. Schue doesn't even _know _any gang signs! Not even the discount handjob one!" She strode off, still fuming under her breath. "It is _so _on."

Baffled by this incomprehensible outburst, Kurt remained hunched over in a vulnerable stance, shielding his nether regions, wondering if it was safe to move. As Rachel's offended steps receded down the hallway, he slowly straightened up and turned to glance helplessly at himself in the mirror.

"You've got to get a lock for that door," he told his reflection.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Well, this update that was supposed to be the second "half" of Chapter 4 actually turned out to be twice as long as that one. I'm hopeless. (And I realize the beginning of this one seems abrupt, but it was supposed to continue directly from the last scene in Chapter 4.)

I think there were some concerns via reviews and PM that I wanted to address, but now I can't remember the details. I'll just say that when it comes to romance this is a Brittana fic, 100%, and that if you come along for the ride I hope you won't be disappointed.

Oh, I also wanted to note that in my head, Pete is played by Christopher Lloyd. And if you don't know who that is, _kill yourselves_. Or just google him. ;) Because seriously, no one else can play him.

Thank you so much for reviewing - I'm still amazed and thrilled that there are other people besides me who want to read this. I appreciate each and every one of you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Since the day's leisurely schedule permitted it, before leaving the building Santana took a few minutes to introduce Brittany to their neighbors on the fourth floor. She'd been a bit nervous about this, since most of the other tenants were eccentric at best and crazy at worst. But then she'd reflected on the fact that Brittany herself sometimes made an unusual first impression on people, and she decided it wasn't an issue worth worrying about. Besides, the truth was, she sort of wanted to show her off.

So, by the time they caught the train to Midtown, Brittany had already made the acquaintance of Rhonda, the perpetually paranoid thirty-something Jamaican immigrant who lived across the hall from them and who seemed to earn all of her income from a home-based business selling parrots, ferrets, and weed. ("So if you're ever in the market for any of _those _things…" Santana had suggested wryly.) She'd met Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen, the elderly Vietnamese couple who lived next to Rhonda, and who were almost disappointingly normal by the building's standards. Their only real distinguishing factor was that they liked to pretend they couldn't speak English whenever Rachel was around so that she wouldn't pepper them with questions about _Miss Saigon_. ("I don't understand it," she often complained to Santana and Kurt. "I see them talking to other people all the time. Am I not speaking clearly enough?")

And last but not least, she'd been introduced to Mr. Bloom, who occupied the apartment next to theirs, and who earned the distinction of being their favorite neighbor. Mr. Bloom was a soon-to-retire English professor at Brooklyn College, a large, florid, ruddy-faced man who spoke in a booming voice and liked to quote random bits of poetry at people in a pleasantly confrontational way. He referred to the three of them as "the theatrical children," and was probably the only person in the building who had never lodged any complaints about the loud and incessant singing that came from their apartment at all hours. In addition to his tolerance of their noise, he also harbored a belief that in civilized countries the legal drinking age should be no higher than twelve, and so he gladly sold them bottles of wine whenever they wanted them. And of course, they wanted them often.

Throughout these introductions, Santana managed to avoid giving Brittany any specific label in relation to herself. She didn't refer to her as her friend, but she didn't say girlfriend either. It helped that most of the neighbors liked to interrupt and talk about themselves. But it wasn't as if she felt shame, not anymore. It was more that, given the current complicated state of their relationship, she didn't quite know what she should call her. They hadn't discussed it yet. Brittany, for her part, didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. And to Santana's relief, everyone seemed to like her. Rhonda even offered her a complimentary ferret, to which Santana quickly said, "No," at Brittany's hopeful look.

The only person she wasn't able to be introduced to was Pete, who was having his afternoon nap in the downstairs hall when they left the building. They tiptoed past him, Santana breathing a secret sigh of relief that she wouldn't have to try to explain why she was spending the day with Ruby instead of Greta. In Pete's addled mind, this would probably be tantamount to adultery.

On the way to the subway station, and then on the train itself, Santana watched Brittany's reactions with amusement. Everything was so new to her, so exciting. She practically skipped down the sidewalk, pulling on Santana's hand to hurry her along. She stared into every shop window in their Brooklyn neighborhood as if she were gazing into a Fifth Avenue boutique and not a pawn shop or a liquor store. In the subway station, she breathed in the fetid smell as if it were wafting from a bakery instead of urine-soaked newspaper. Then, on the train itself, she couldn't sit still. She balanced on her knees on the bench, looking out the window at the tunnel flashing by, even though there was nothing to see but rapid blurs of graffiti that passed too quickly to read. Santana laughed at her, delighted. She knew she should warn her about not drawing attention to herself, but she just didn't have the heart to do it today.

In Manhattan itself, Brittany managed to rein in her giddiness to a more sophisticated enjoyment. After all, she'd been here before, during Nationals. She seemed to feel that that whirlwind tour of the city in some ways gave her the right to act as if she knew the place well. To Santana, this was just as adorable as her earlier awe. At the ice skating rink in Rockefeller Center, Brittany took charge as though she'd been there dozens of times, buying their tickets and selecting their skates, then leading Santana out toward a bench where they could change into them, her face glowing with anticipation.

"You know," she told Santana, lacing up her skates. "When I was a kid, I used to think that glass was just warm ice. And believe me, you do not want to chew up a glasscube. Because it doesn't melt on your tongue, _at all_."

Santana gave her a disturbed look. "How did you survive childhood?"

"Sometimes I wonder that myself," Brittany admitted. She stood and pulled Santana to her feet, excited. "Come on."

Now that the holidays were over, the rink was only moderately crowded. But the minute Santana stepped onto the ice, she realized this wasn't going to be as easy as she'd thought. She'd been roller skating, plenty of times, and she'd assumed it would be basically the same thing. But it wasn't. Not even close. Immediately, she began to lose her balance and Brittany grabbed her to keep her from falling.

"It's all in the ankles," she told her. "You have to pretend they're made out of steel."

"_Steel_?" Santana repeated. "I didn't realize you had to be part robot to do this."

"Just hang onto me until you get a feel for it."

They went slowly, Santana clinging to her and feeling ridiculous. But Brittany's enthusiasm was contagious. It was clear how much she was enjoying herself, even though she was moving at a snail's pace and everybody else in the rink was passing them, over and over again. Santana couldn't help laughing at herself and her ineptitude, which was something she almost never did. Gradually, she loosened up a bit and relaxed her stance, though still while keeping a tight grip on Brittany's arm.

"See, it's fun, right?" Brittany urged her.

Before she could answer, a nine or ten year old boy zipped by, calling out to them, "You _suuuuuck_!"

"Hey!" Santana yelled after him. "Why don't you come back here and say that, you little punk?"

"Ignore him," Brittany said, in her mellow way. "I earned four hundred dollars babysitting last semester, and if there's one thing I learned about kids, it's that the best way to shut them up when they're being annoying is to not pay any attention to them." She reflected. "Of course, sometimes it backfires when they steal the neighbor's car and try to drive themselves to the carnival. I don't think Sam's parents will ever ask me to sit for them again."

Santana decided not to ask for additional details on this troubling story. Instead, she said, "Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen are always trying to get us to watch their grandkids when they visit. But we usually make excuses. I mean, between my temper and Kurt's gay porn and Rachel's hair removal products, the apartment isn't really safe for kids, anyway."

While saying this, she forgot that her ankles were supposed to be made out of steel, and one of them suddenly crumpled under her. Brittany grabbed her with lightning-quick reflexes, and somehow neither of them fell.

"HA HA HA!" intoned the little boy, as he whizzed by them again.

Santana glared after him. "I'm about to go _all _Lima Heights on that kid."

But Brittany only grinned at her. She turned around and skated backwards, slowly, holding both Santana's hands and pulling her along. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asked. "I like it when I'm better than you at something."

Santana smiled back at her, unable to help herself. "Oh, yeah? And how do you know I'm not faking it to make you feel good about yourself?"

As if to answer this question, Brittany suddenly let go of her hands, and Santana nearly fell again before Brittany grabbed them once more, looking pleased with herself and her little trick. Before Santana could protest the unfairness of this, though, she pulled her in closer for a kiss.

It was nothing much more than a soft, lingering peck - they didn't even completely stop skating - but almost before they'd pulled away from each other, an obese woman in tight purple sweat pants seemed to materialize out of nowhere next to them, looming up like a buffalo. "This is a family place, girls," she told them, managing to sound both resigned and disgusted at the same time.

"Oh, _really_," Santana said, raising her eyebrows and examining her. "Well then you might want to consider covering up that camel toe, Wynonna Judd, because I'm pretty sure the sight of it has damaged my egg cells and traumatized the kids I haven't even _had _yet."

"Kiss my ass!" the woman said, abandoning her veneer of civility as she skated past them.

"Which one?" Santana called after her with a pleasant smirk.

Brittany was biting her lip to keep from saying anything. Santana looked at her. "What? Was I supposed to ignore her, too?"

Instead of answering, she said, "Okay, time for lesson two. Bend your knees a little, so you can push yourself forward. You're supposed to be _gliding _on the ice, not walking on it."

"It's kind of hard to focus on gliding when this place is filled with assholes." But she tried it anyway, and Brittany was right, it made forward motion a lot easier. They skated for a few minutes, increasing in speed until they weren't going too much slower than everyone else in the rink. Santana managed to relax enough to look around her, marveling at the fact that she was actually here, with Brittany. At this precise moment, everything felt just right, the way she'd imagined it would be. It was like the perfect New York City day, with the only person in the world she wanted to spend it with.

So of course, that was the moment that one of her legs seemed to veer off in a direction all its own, without her permission, taking her with it. She clutched at Brittany, but this time, for whatever reason, she wasn't able to keep her balance either, and they both went down in a heap.

It wasn't too bad of a fall, but they sat there, not immediately getting back up. "You okay?" Brittany asked.

"Yeah," she said, embarrassed. They were practically right in the center of the rink, and everyone else continued to skate in wide circles around them. One couple was showing off, doing elaborate maneuvers and figure eights, dipping in and out of the paths of the more leisurely-moving skaters. "Sorry." She rolled her eyes a little. "If it weren't for me, you'd probably be doing that."

But Brittany didn't seem tempted. She looked away from the couple and stared at Santana for a few seconds, then reached over and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face, saying in a soft voice, "I'd rather be right here."

Returning the look and feeling a surge of emotion that was strong enough to overpower any lingering discomfort she may have felt, she leaned in for another kiss, a real one this time. Screw the rubber-neckers. She closed her eyes, reveling in that particular sensation of kissing someone outside on a winter's day, the coldness of lips compared to the intoxication of the heat lurking just beneath the surface. It took her breath away.

The two of them leaned their foreheads together briefly, recovering from the intensity of the kiss, unwilling to separate just yet. Santana was aware on the periphery of her consciousness of skaters continuing to circle them, and the fact that she could sit here and kiss Brittany in the midst of it all made her heart soar. As cheesy as it sounded, that was actually what it felt like. Soaring.

The elation was short-lived, however. When she finally drew back, she noticed over Brittany's shoulder that the woman in purple sweat pants was on the other side of the low dividing wall, talking in an emphatic way to one of the rink's employees, gesturing over toward the two of them where they still sat in the middle of the ice.

Santana shook her head a little, in disbelief. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. That cow is trying to get us thrown out of this joint."

Turning to see what she was talking about, Brittany's expression turned glum, with just a hint of bitterness. "I thought people in New York were different."

"They are, mostly," Santana said, hastening to reassure her. "I mean, this is a really touristy spot. Chances are, she's from Ohio. Or someplace even worse, like Texas."

"I guess so," Brittany said. But she still looked disappointed.

And now, as if on cue, the obnoxious little boy was skating toward them again. Apparently having seen their kiss, he was chanting, to the ascending scale of the basketball "Charge" fanfare theme, the words, "Gay gay gay gay, Gay gay gay gay, Gay gay gay gay..." As he neared them, he reached the peak of the melody and sang, "Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dun, GAYYYY!"

Brittany watched him approach with an unreadable expression on her face. "Can I borrow your scarf?" she asked.

Confused, Santana nonetheless took it off and passed it to her. Almost as soon as it was in her hand, Brittany flicked her wrist and sent the scarf streaming out across the ice, just in front of the kid's skates. He hit it and went flying, one hundred percent airborne, then landed on his butt and slid across the ice, finally coming to a stop about thirty feet beyond them.

Santana gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. "_Brittany_!"

Brittany glanced backwards at the boy, not looking too concerned. She watched him for a few seconds, then said as she turned back around, "He's not bleeding."

Santana gazed at her in awe, stunned. "I am _so _turned on by you right now."

The corners of Brittany's mouth lifted in a mischievous smile, this information obviously pleasing her.

Having recovered from the initial shock of his unexpected flight and subsequent crash, the kid now opened his mouth and bellowed at an earsplitting volume, "MOOOOOOMMMM!"

And of course, who should respond to his call but Mrs. Camel Toe herself, who came out from behind the wall and made a wobbling, flesh-quaking beeline toward him.

"Oh shit," Santana said under her breath, laughing a little.

Looking daunted now, Brittany said, "We should probably go."

She stood and pulled Santana to her feet, and they made their way off the ice as fast as they could, trying to hold in hysterical laughter while they kept checking behind them to see if they were being pursued.

* * *

><p>After their ice skating adventure was cut short, they went to grab a late lunch at a little Italian place Santana had discovered, a few blocks from her school. It wasn't Breadstix, but after weeks of forlorn searching, it was about the closest she'd been able to find. The breadsticks themselves were good, but unfortunately, they weren't all-you-can-eat. Though as Santana explained to Brittany, she usually ended up stealing Kurt's and Rachel's when they weren't looking, so "it's sort of all-you-can-eat, <em>for me<em>." Today, she settled for more limited portions, and they even splurged and ordered cheesecake for dessert. When the bill came, however, Brittany seemed astonished and a bit horrified by the total. "I know," Santana commiserated. "Everything's crazy expensive. But you get used to it." She had a feeling she'd be saying those words a lot over the next few days.

After they ate, she took her on a tour of the area that she'd grown to know almost as well as their own neighborhood in Brooklyn. She showed Brittany her school, and the nearby public library branch where she sometimes studied. She showed her Rachel and Kurt's school, making sure to stay on the opposite side of the street just in case they were there and happened to spot them. Even though it was Saturday, you never knew for sure. The place seemed to draw them like a magnet, and sometimes when she got off work she had to wait hours for them to tear themselves away. But it was still preferable to taking the subway home alone at night.

Though the truth was that every once in a while, even as she pretended to protest, she got dragged into a NYADA performance number herself. Just in the past few months, she'd filled in as Marta in a _Company _rehearsal, and joined in an impromptu medley from _South Pacific_. But she didn't mention any of this to Brittany. She liked to keep up the illusion that there was a clear dividing line between her world and theirs.

The last stop on her guided tour was the one she was most familiar with of all – her own place of employment. The Pearl (a name Santana assumed the Bengali owner had chosen for the fact that it sounded vaguely luxurious and sophisticated) was just starting to fill up with the weekend happy hour crowd. She looked around, hoping to catch the eye of a waiter she suspected had the hots for her, thinking maybe she could convince him to bring them a free cocktail. But instead, the owner, Suresh, approached her.

"Thank goodness you are here," he said, looking flustered. "See that man in the blue suit?" He gestured toward a table near the front. "He's from the bank. He needs to be very very impressed by the time he leaves here tonight."

"_What_?" she said, annoyed. "No, I'm not working today. I asked for the night off, like, three weeks ago, remember? I'm spending the day with Brittany." She gestured toward her.

Suresh gave her an impatient little bow. "Hello, Brit-uh-nee," he said, pronouncing her name like it was three separate words. He turned back to Santana. "I am sorry for the inconvenience, but Millie will not be here until six. Someone needs to sing _now_. If I do not get this loan approved, it is both of our jobs on the line. Do you know how much it costs to rent this space? For the same price in India I could buy an entire village and fill it with Thai prostitutes. Or so I have heard," he added guiltily.

She started to protest again, but Suresh's niece approached, holding out a credit card like it was some kind of noxious insect. "It was declined," she said, sounding bored.

He snatched it from her. "Must I do everything myself?" He pushed her toward the stage, telling her, "Go to the piano. I will handle the register."

The girl rolled her eyes, but did as she was told.

Both of them walked off, and Santana was left standing there with Brittany. She sighed and turned toward her, apologetic. "Do you mind if I work for a little while? It shouldn't be more than an hour or so."

"Are you kidding me?" Brittany said. "How could I turn down a chance to hear you sing? I'm your biggest fan. I might even throw my bra on the stage."

She laughed. "Just try not to get me fired."

Leading her to a table closer to the front, she told the customers who were already sitting there that it was reserved. When they protested, she revived her waitress-from-hell persona in order to chase them off. After installing Brittany in the best seat, she headed up onto the stage.

She held a whispered conference with Ruma, irritated as always by the girl's complete indifference to any and all forms of music. During Santana's normal working hours, at least, she no longer had to put up with her. She had a professional piano player to back her up, as well as a full band on special occasions. But this evening, apparently, it was back to basics.

Approaching the mike stand, she said simply, "Hi." There were a few scattered whistles and cheers from the regulars. She waved at one table of particular favorites. Without further preliminaries, she announced, "This first song means a lot to me... I've actually had it stuck in my head for the last couple of days. And um, I'd like to dedicate it to my..." and here she stopped, realizing that after all her carefulness this morning, she'd now backed herself into the verbal corner she'd hoped to avoid. The pause couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like forever. Brittany watched her, smiling slightly in encouragement.

"... my best friend in the whole entire world," she finally said, feeling a bit disappointed in herself. "Who's visiting right now all the way from Ohio," she added, just because it felt like she needed to say something else. Everyone turned a perfunctory gaze toward Brittany, who looked both pleased and embarrassed to be the center of attention.

The first few notes rippled out from the piano, and Santana took a deep breath, then began to sing Billie Holiday's _The Very Thought of You_. She'd chosen a song that she didn't consider to be terribly emotional, hoping this would help her get through it without making a fool out of herself. But even so, by the time she got to the line "_You'll never know, how slow the moments go, till I'm near to you_," there were tears standing in her eyes.

Brittany watched her intently, pretty much mirroring her own expression. Santana moved down from the stage, closer to her. "_I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above. It's just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love_." For the few minutes that the song lasted, it felt like they were the only two people in the room.

When the last chords of the piano finally died away, she remained standing in front of the table for a few seconds until the applause brought her back to reality. She forced herself to tear her gaze away from Brittany's, dabbing surreptitiously at her eye with her sleeve as she returned to the stage. "Thanks," she murmured to the audience.

Too late, she remembered the guy from the bank she was supposed to be helping to impress. She scanned the crowd to locate him again, and was infinitely relieved to see that he was smiling and that he didn't seem bothered by the performance. _Thank God._ It was horrifying to think that her open affection toward Brittany could end up inadvertently causing Suresh to lose his business, but she was pragmatic enough to know the possibility existed. This time, at least, she seemed to have lucked out.

For the next forty-five minutes or so, she tried to keep things more professional, reminding herself that there was more than one person in the room. It wasn't easy, but she pulled it off, even though her eyes were drawn back to Brittany's table over and over again, checking to make sure she was still enjoying herself. The guy from the bank eventually left, but she did a few more songs in order to round out the hour, and because she perversely wanted to force that little brat Ruma to stay at her much-loathed piano for just a bit longer.

When she finished her set, Brittany's whoops and cheers were louder than anyone else's. She even gave her a standing ovation. Santana left the stage and, grabbing her hand, pulled her to the back of the room near the exit, feeling both embarrassed by all the fuss and at the same time lit up with pride. In all the time she'd been working here, she hadn't realized how much it would mean for her to have Brittany see her in action. Describing it on the phone didn't quite compare. In a way, she'd been singing for her all along, even when she was hundreds of miles away.

Now Brittany threw her arms around her neck, pressing her lips to her ear and saying softly, "You were amazing. I'm so proud of you."

"Aww. Thank you." Santana grinned at her and started to say something else, but just behind Brittany's back, the door opened and a petite, freckled redhead with a guitar case slung over her shoulder came in. All the joy faded from Santana's expression, to be replaced by dread. _Shit_, she thought. _Shit shit shit_. _Not today._ Brittany turned to see who she was looking at.

The girl approached, tentatively, not looking any more thrilled to see Santana than Santana was to see her. "What are you doin' here?" she asked, the Southern accent not making the greeting any less abrupt. "This is my night. Unless the dang schedule was wrong..."

"No," Santana interrupted. "It's not." She thought about trying to explain Suresh's panic, the bank officer, the need for the spontaneous set, but she didn't want to get into it. Instead, she said, "We're leaving. I just wanted to show Britt where I worked."

Now the girl's eyes opened wide in recognition. "_Oh_," she said in a meaningful way. "So _this _is Brittany." She turned to her, giving her the once-over, not bothering to hide her naked curiosity.

"Hi," Brittany said.

Miserable, Santana realized she wasn't going to be able to get out of this without a full introduction. "This is Amelia," she said, her expression indicating she would rather be anywhere on earth than here. "She sings on the nights I have off."

"Millie," the girl corrected her, addressing Brittany. "She's the only one who refuses to call me that."

"Because it's _awful_," Santana muttered, petulant.

"I like it," Brittany said, seeming mercifully unaware of the bad vibes swarming around this little run-in. "It makes me think of baby cows... and those barn cats that catch milk right out of the air." She paused, looking at the case slung over the girl's shoulder. "Is that a real guitar?"

Millie seemed puzzled, unsure of how to respond to this question. "Um... yeah?"

"Awesome." Brittany gave her a pleasant look. "When I was fourteen I used to carry a violin case everywhere, because I thought it made me look smart. But really it was just filled with Skittles."

"Skittles," Millie drawled, with fake interest. "You don't say. I woulda thought M&Ms, myself."

"I tried that," Brittany said, nodding. "But they melted."

Now Millie turned to look at Santana, an expression of mixed amusement and pity. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, _Really_? _Her_?

Digging her nails into her palms in order to avoid doing something she knew she would regret, Santana said in a voice of just barely-contained rage, "We've got a train to catch, so... It was good seeing you." She took Brittany's arm and pulled her to the door.

Brittany turned to offer a polite, "Bye," but they were already practically out of the building.

Millie's voice trailed after them, dripping with irony. "Y'all have a nice night."

Santana walked fast, anger and mortification propelling her down the sidewalk. _That bitch_. They reached the entrance to the subway station that she normally used, but she continued on past it. There was another one about five blocks away. She couldn't bear the thought of going underground yet, of being crushed against all those people. The cold air on the street was bracing. So she kept moving. Brittany walked fast to keep up with her, darting concerned looks in her direction.

Finally, Santana felt herself begin to calm down, and she slowed her steps accordingly. After an inner debate with herself, she hesitated and then took a deep breath. In a halting manner, she said, "So in case you couldn't tell... that was my, um..." She cleared her throat. "That was my... _pineapple_." She immediately shot a glance over at Brittany to gauge her reaction.

"Oh." Confused for just a split second, her face almost immediately registered recognition. "_Oh._ Seriously?"

"Yeah." She paused, uncomfortable, shrugging a little. "I mean, you're the one who told me I should..."

"No, I know," Brittany interrupted. "I'm glad. Are you still...?"

"_No_," Santana said, looking surprised. "Of course not." She watched Brittany's face closely, not knowing quite what she was looking for. Jealousy? Possessiveness? Any hint that this whole thing didn't sit well with her? But to her disappointment, there didn't seem to be much evidence of any of that. She looked calm; peaceful, even.

"Well, she seemed really nice. And cute, too."

Santana considered this, wondering how much to reveal. "She's not as nice as she seems."

Brittany gave her questioning look. "Do you want to talk about it?" They crossed the street, then turned down a quieter, more deserted block. It was almost completely dark, evening falling early as it always did in the shadows of Manhattan's clustered, towering architecture.

"Not tonight." Then, knowing she shouldn't, Santana asked, "Do you want to talk about Mike Chang?"

Brittany rolled her eyes, as if she should have known this was coming. But still, she didn't seem bothered. "I told you that was nothing. He broke his leg dancing and he had to move home with his parents. Since Tina's back with Artie, we were both just... lonely. And stuck in Lima."

"Lonely enough to take your pants off?"

"_Santana_."

"No, you're right... I'm sorry," she said, holding her hands up. "I don't want to know." She was silent for a few seconds, but then couldn't stop herself from adding, "You really have a thing for the crippled guys, huh?"

Brittany gave a tiny sardonic smile, tolerant as almost no one else would be at Santana's inappropriateness. "It's _over_. He's back in LA now... and his leg is healing up just fine, so he can dance again."

"Well, good. Because it'd be a real shame if he was mangled for life. Or if he, you know, broke the other one."

Now Brittany tilted her head to the side and gave her a pointed look, a look she knew was supposed to shame her.

"I'm _kidding_," she said. And she was, but only a little. The fact was, Chang was damn lucky he wasn't here right now. Because it certainly wasn't his leg she felt like breaking.

Further down the sidewalk, they passed a group of tourists ineffectually trying to hail a cab. Santana considered telling them that they'd never get one on this street, that they needed to go to one of the busier thoroughfares, but they had OSU jackets on, and she wasn't feeling kindly disposed toward any Midwesterners today. They'd figure it out eventually.

But thinking about Ohio made her remember her lame introduction of Brittany from the Pearl's stage. She cringed now, recalling her minor panic. "You know," she told her. "When I called you my best friend back there, it wasn't because I was ashamed of being gay or anything. I don't feel like that anymore. Okay, _sometimes _I do," she admitted. "But that's not why I said that. I just... wasn't sure what else to call you."

"I figured," Brittany said, giving her an understanding look. "But... just so you know, you could have said girlfriend."

"Really?" she asked, feeling that old familiar surge of hope, of gratefulness, of reassurance. The same thing she'd felt when Brittany had confirmed, for the first time, that they were on a real date. It was the relief of having your happiness validated by the person who held that happiness in her hands, in her control. She felt a wave of relief.

But then a strange thing happened. Not even knowing precisely why she did it, she reined all those emotions in. She pushed them down into herself and out of sight, like someone sitting on an overstuffed suitcase in order to zip it up. The transformation was obvious in her features, a shadow falling across them.

Because she couldn't keep letting herself do this. Not anymore. Maybe, after all, the run-in with Amelia had been a good thing. Maybe it had shown her something that she needed to see.

Staring down at the sidewalk, she said in a halting way, "Actually, though... I think..." She stopped, then tried again. "I think maybe it would be better, for now... if we just, sort of, went back to the way things used to be."

Brittany looked perplexed by this, justifiably so. "What do you mean, the way things used to be?"

"I mean... back to when we were best friends, who enjoyed... _extracurricular activities_. You know?"

Thrown for a loop, Brittany looked at her like she was crazy. It was obvious she didn't quite comprehend what was going on, or where this was coming from. "_Why_, though?"

"Well, that was sort of the plan, wasn't it? We were gonna take things slow."

"Yeah, but..." Brittany shrugged. "You see how that worked out."

"I know. But still... I think it was a good idea. Even if we kind of screwed up the beginning."

Brittany gradually stopped walking and turned to stare at her, as if she needed to be still in order to try to read exactly what was going on in Santana's head. She gazed at her contemplatively, the unspoken question in her eyes, _What are you so scared of?_ Out loud, she only said, "And you're sure that's what you want?"

She avoided direct eye contact, knowing she wouldn't be able to say the words otherwise, especially with the casual tone she wanted them to have. "Just until things are more settled. Until we figure out for sure if you're staying, and... how things stand. With us." That last part was vaguer than she liked, but she couldn't bear to be more specific.

Even with the murky language, now Brittany finally seemed to understand where all this was coming from. Santana could practically see the realization dawn on her, see her mind traveling back to that night in June. With the remembrance came a slight look of guilt. And also sadness, as she realized her own words were the root cause of Santana's fear, of her reluctance to put her entire heart on the line again. "Oh," she said in a soft voice. "I get it."

Hastening to backtrack just a bit, because she didn't want things to seem more dire than they were, Santana said, "I mean, if you think about it... it doesn't really change anything anyway. It's just a word."

"I guess so," Brittany agreed after a second, though it was obvious she didn't really think this was true. And to her surprise, somewhere deep inside her, Santana felt just the barest, tiniest pinch of satisfaction at Brittany's disappointment, at the way this conversation mirrored their earlier one, the difference between friend and girlfriend echoing the difference between loving and being in love. _See Britt? It's not the same_. She immediately hated herself for the bitterness of the thought, but she couldn't deny that it had been there.

"I just think it would be smarter," Santana said. "For _now_," she emphasized again. And though it hurt so bad to say the words, she felt a small measure of relief that she was capable of it, that she could hold a little something of herself back this time around. It made things between them feel more balanced, if less certain.

"Yeah," Brittany said. "I see what you mean." But it didn't look as if she did, not really.

The two of them eventually started walking again, though each was now closed off in her own bubble of gloomy reflection. This day that had started so perfectly had gone on a sudden downward spiral.

They were quiet for a few minutes, continuing along the sidewalk. In contrast to her excitement earlier in the afternoon, Brittany now seemed a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of buildings they passed, by the relentless gray presence of urban life, everywhere you looked. She kept glancing up at the darkening sky, as if it was the only familiar thing she could recognize. But the stars weren't visible here, so even that wasn't truly familiar.

After a bit, she said in a small voice, "We can still hold hands, though, right?"

Santana emerged from her melancholy haze and smiled at her, grateful and reassuring. "Of course we can. Do you even need to ask?" She took Brittany's hand, linking their fingers. The entrance to the subway station loomed up ahead, and together, they headed down into the darkness.

* * *

><p>The train home was crowded, and they didn't try to talk. Brittany leaned her head on Santana's shoulder, weary and a bit disenchanted. Back on the streets of Sunset Park, Santana drew her close, hurrying her along. It was only a few blocks to where they lived, and it was a safe neighborhood, but still... She was always glad to get inside. Especially at night.<p>

As they approached the apartment building, she could see that for some reason Kurt and Rachel were huddled together, sitting on the front stoop. "_Great_. Looks like Mary and Rhoda beat us home."

"Why are they sitting outside?" Brittany wondered.

"Who knows," she said with scorn. "Probably harassing innocent passers-by with show tunes."

As they approached, Kurt and Rachel stood up, Kurt muttering, "Finally," as if they'd made some kind of appointment and Santana and Brittany were late for it.

"Let me guess," Santana said. "You locked yourselves out again."

"Not this time," Rachel said. "It's Pete. He's having one of his bad nights. He hasn't taken his pills today, because he thinks we're fighting. Santana, we owe him a visit."

"Oh _God_," she groaned. "Can't it wait?" She glanced at Brittany. "We've had a really long day."

"You know what, that's just fine," Rachel said. "If you're okay with having a lonely, abandoned old man's death on your conscience, then far be it from me to..."

"All right, _all right_!" she said, cutting her off. She sighed heavily, heading toward the steps. "Spare me the drama. Let's just get this over with."

As they moved toward the door, Brittany said to Rachel, "So... are you mad about the rap thing from this morning?"

"Oh, that?" Rachel replied, in a voice that was just a little too loud to be convincing. "Not at all. I admit at first I may have been a _little _peeved, but in the interests of domestic harmony, I've decided to forget about it. I'll just consider it a sort of... reverse hazing ritual."

"Cool," Brittany said, looking relieved. "I'm glad you're not as crazy as you used to be."

Rachel gave her a tight-lipped smile in response. Santana watched her with a suspicious look, wondering what she was hiding. Brittany didn't know her well enough to be able to see it, but by this point, in spite of herself, Santana did. And something was definitely up.

But there wasn't time to worry about it now, because they'd reached the front door. Rachel peeked through first, confirming that the visit was still necessary, then reached back and held out her hand. Santana looked at Brittany and told her in a sheepish voice, "I wish you didn't have to see this." Then, as if steeling herself for inevitable shame, she took Rachel's hand and let herself be pulled through the door. Brittany and Kurt followed behind.

"_Pee-eete_!" Rachel trilled. "Look who I found!"

The man in the recliner chair that they approached was muttering to himself, a newspaper spread open over his pajama-clad knee. He appeared to be in his seventies, with a weathered yet still animated face, tufts of gray hair that sprang up in different directions all over his head, and bright, glittering, hawk-like eyes. "Aha!" he shouted, smacking the newspaper. "You see this? A two-bedroom walk-up in Williamsburg, eat-in kitchen... says the building is quiet. _Quiet_," he repeated. "You know what that means? It means they don't want Irish or Italians! That's subliminal messaging, that's what that is. Racism!"

"I think your racism might be a little outdated, there," Santana said wryly.

Suddenly he looked up and squinted. "Aunt Olive!" he exclaimed, thrilled.

"Hi Pete," she said, resigned.

"What, you don't call, you don't write?" he demanded.

"I just saw you yesterday morning, remember? I had to get your slipper out of the street after you threw it at the mailman."

"Oh, yes," he said, his expression growing wary. "That Chinese fellow. I don't like the way he looks at me. He's always trying to give me dirty pictures." He pulled a rolled-up magazine out of the pocket on the side of his recliner. On the cover was a semi-nude male model. "See here?"

Looking embarrassed, Kurt piped up, "Oh... actually, I think that's mine." He took the magazine and tucked it discreetly into his coat.

"_Mr. Wexler_," Pete said, wagging his finger. "I thought _I_ was your favorite student!"

Kurt seemed at a loss for words. "I don't even know what that means," he muttered.

"Anyway, Pete," Rachel said in a sweet voice, trying to distract him. "Olive and I just wanted to stop by and show you that everything's fine between us. We're not fighting at all. See?" She held up their linked hands.

He examined them, not seeming convinced. "Hmm." He looked at Rachel. "You're sure she's not making you go without bloomers again?"

"What?" Santana said, horrified. "I've never done that!" She turned to Brittany, repeating in an adamant voice, "I've never done that."

"I assure you," Rachel told him, "I am most certainly wearing underwear right now. But even if I wasn't, it would be my _own _decision, no one else's. So..." she said, letting go of Santana's hand and popping open the Saturday slot in the pill organizer on his recliner's built-in tray, "Since you can see that we're very happy, now it's time for you to take your pills. All right?"

"Please, take them," Santana urged. "In fact, if you want to, take _all of them_ at once."

"_Santana_," Rachel said sharply, momentarily breaking character.

Pete lifted one of the pills and held it toward the light, closing one eye almost all the way and staring at it with mistrust. "You know," he said, as if he were imparting an important secret. "They put LSD in these. The government."

"Okay, if that was true, we'd _all _be trying to get on blood pressure medication," Santana said, increasingly exasperated. "Besides, last week you said it was the Russians."

"The _Russians_!" he repeated, latching on to the word. He leaned forward, saying in a paranoid stage whisper. "They've got secret microphones in my chair. Stalin, Lenin... they hear every word we say. Every word! You kids don't know."

In a dry tone, Kurt said, "Yes, it really is a shame that we've never been able to catch up to the Russians in terms of our La-Z-Boy spy technology."

Rachel spun around and lectured them in an undertone. "Stop egging him on. Do you want to be here all night?"

"Guess what else I read today in the ol' broadsheet here?" Pete said, tapping the newspaper. "It seems that a certain type of marriage is now legal in the great state of New York! Ring any bells, Aunt Greta?"

Tentatively, Rachel suggested, "Are you talking about... gay marriage?"

"Bingo!" he shouted, causing Brittany to jump slightly. "That's the kind."

"He thinks Stalin is in charge of Russia, but he knows about gay marriage?" Santana said in disbelief.

"And what I'm wondering is," Pete went on slyly, "Why haven't I heard any announcements of the nuptial variety when it comes to my two favorite aunts in the world?"

"Oh," Rachel said, surprised. She glanced at Santana, then back at Pete, flustered. "Well, we haven't... exactly... talked about..."

He cut her off. "But I thought everything was fine? I thought you were happy?" And now he struck a mournful, martyred pose, sweeping his pills away with his hand. "I don't think I need to take these after all. I think maybe it's best if I just leave this sad, loveless world for good. I'll probably be assassinated soon anyway... it's only a matter of time until Castro finds me."

Rachel sighed, at her wit's end. She turned and faced Santana, and Santana suddenly realized exactly what she had in mind. "Don't you dare," she told her in a low voice.

"It's the only way," Rachel said. Then, without further hesitation, she reached out and grasped both Santana's hands and, staring at her, began proclaiming in a dramatic style, "Olive! My dear, sweet Olive. Ever since we met, back in the nineteen-..." Here you could see her attempting to do the calculations in her head, then giving up and substituting, "Back in the olden days... You've been the shining beacon of light in my life."

Wishing she could sink through the floor, Santana glanced over at Brittany, who still stood in the shadows behind them, looking more than a little skeptical. Kurt had a hand pressed to his mouth to contain his enjoyment.

Rachel continued, to Santana's mortification. "Even through all the chaos that surrounded us; the gangsters, the... the gunslingers..." She looked unsure of herself. "The... pirates?" In an apologetic aside, she said, "I don't know that much about history."

"_Just get on with it_," Santana told her through clenched teeth. Pete was watching them with rapt attention, looking like a little boy seeing his parents make up after a fight.

"Even through all the danger and the madness," Rachel continued, "I knew that our love would stand the test of time. Though it was a forbidden love, we knew in our hearts that it was as pure as... as... clean sheets. Olive, you are the most beautiful, funniest, bravest woman I've ever met. And I know how scared you were, and how much strength it's taken to get to where you are now. And I'm so proud of you."

With these last words Rachel slightly dropped the theatrical style, uttering them with a touch of sincerity, which made Santana even more uncomfortable. She glanced at Brittany again, and to her surprise, the jealous look on her face was the one she'd hoped, the one she'd _needed_, to see earlier, when she'd been talking about Amelia. But that made no sense at all, did it? Why now? This wasn't even real. She must be misinterpreting the expression.

"So, without further ado!" Rachel announced, going back to declamatory mode. Suddenly, with no warning, she dropped down onto one knee, causing Santana to mutter in horror, "You have _got _to be kidding me, Rachel." She noticed that Kurt now had his phone out, trying to get a picture, and she sent him a look that she hoped conveyed clearly the message _I will fucking kill you_.

"Today, I kneel before you... and ask you out of the depths of my great, earth-shattering love, if you, Olive..." She paused, and unable to come up with an alternative, threw in, "Lopez... would do me the honor of considering..."

"Yes," Santana interrupted, not willing to endure another second of this. She forcefully pulled her to her feet. "Yes, okay? I will marry you, Greta."

Pete smacked the arm of his chair in delight, his toothless mouth open in wonder.

Rachel clapped and bounced on her toes, beaming. "Yay!" She pursed her lips and leaned in a little as if for a kiss, to which Santana's reaction was, "Oh _hell _no."

So instead, Rachel grabbed her from the side and wrapped her arms around her, beaming at Pete. "We'll just... celebrate later," she explained to him. "So you see, Pete? We're so, so happy. In fact, the only thing that would make us happier would be for you to take your pills. Because we want you to be healthy for the wedding, don't we?" She squeezed Santana a little.

"Yes," Santana agreed, trying to force a smile, feeling Brittany's eyes drilling into her back. "We definitely want that."

Pete seemed to be considering, and then with a cheerily defeated wave of his hand, he said, "Ehhh," and gathered up his pills from where they'd scattered over the recliner's tray. With a flourish, he popped them into his mouth and took a swig from his water glass. They all watched him with bated breath, waiting. He swallowed, and then opened his mouth as if to show them "All gone."

Santana gave a sigh of relief and unceremoniously shoved Rachel off of her. "Good night, Pete," she said in a peremptory manner, already heading for the stairs.

Brittany followed, but when she drew into the light, closer to Pete's chair, he suddenly noticed her as if for the first time. "Ruby!"

They all stopped, thwarted in their escape. "Ruby's going to be staying with us for a little while," Kurt explained. "She's an old friend." Then, to gather the necessary intel, he asked, "How do you two know each other?"

"Ruby, Ruby..." Pete murmured to himself with a nostalgic air. "She and I go way back," he said, still staring at Brittany. "When I was twelve years old, she gave me my first kiss."

"Oh, that's so romantic," Rachel breathed.

He continued. "Then, when I got out of the army, she gave me the clap."

"That's... considerably less romantic," Kurt said.

"And that was the last time I ever saw her. I loaned her six hundred dollars to start her own beauty salon, and never heard a word from her again. I still want that money back," he told her accusingly. "The way I figure, with interest, it's got to be close to five grand by now."

Brittany, who up until this point had been completely silent throughout the entire exchange with Pete, now stepped forward, looking thoughtful and irritated. "Well... that's kind of a problem, because... the beauty salon didn't work out so well. And you know why? Because that last time we were together, I got pregnant, and I had a son. His name is Herman." She nodded, warming up to her story. "He's all grown up now, and he's a professional kitty litter tester. And yes, that's just as gross as it sounds, because he has no self-esteem. How could he, when he always thought his dad abandoned him? When he was little, he didn't have any friends. His only hobbies were breeding gerbils and collecting Nazi memorabilia. And his therapist said that if he'd had a father figure, he probably wouldn't have eaten his own eyelashes. Do you have any idea what it's like to raise a kid like that, all alone? Especially in Alaska, where our only income came from flipping igloos? And let me tell you, the resale value on a house that melts? Not good."

Pete continued to watch her, stunned into silence.

Brittany paused, then continued on in her almost emotion-less monotone. "In fact, the way I figure it is... you owe _me _money, Pete. I'm guessing, like, twenty thousand dollars by now, for child support back pay and emotional trauma. So it looks to me like... you're not gonna be able to afford to go to any weddings this year. Sorry." With that, she gave Rachel a pointed look, and then with an offended flounce shoved past them all and took off up the stairs, leaving everyone staring after her in surprise.

"I think Brittany's going to fit in just fine here," Kurt said slowly.

After a few seconds, they followed after her, leaving Pete to stare into space and mouth the name "Herman," to himself with a shocked, marveling expression at the idea that he had a son. "_Herman_."

On the flight of stairs leading from the second to the third floor, Santana checked to make sure Brittany was out of sight, further up, then spun around and blocked Kurt and Rachel's path. "Did you get the present?"

Kurt stared at her blankly. "What present?" Then, off of her reaction, he sniffed in amusement and said, "Oh, it was worth it, just to see you make that face." He gestured toward Rachel. "She's got it."

Rachel opened the flap on her shoulder bag and withdrew a small package, only about half the size and half the depth of a shoebox. It seemed ominously small. "I wrapped it myself," she said, handing it over. "What do you think?"

"It's pretty," Santana said, not really giving a damn what it looked like. "What's _in _it?"

They glanced at each other, and Kurt said, "You'll just have to wait and find out when Brittany does. More fun that way, isn't it?"

She stared at them, uncomprehending. Rachel had that cat-that-ate-the-canary look on her face again, and now Santana narrowed her eyes at her, suspicious. "What did you do?" she hissed.

But then just Brittany called from up above, "Are you guys coming? I really need to pee."

Glad for the reprieve, Rachel said with an innocent face, "We shouldn't keep her waiting." She continued on up the stairs. Santana looked at Kurt, who gave her a slight shrug, as if to say, _It was out of my hands_.

Santana tucked the wrapped present into her coat pocket and followed him, mentally kicking herself for having asked them to do this in the first place. What had she been thinking?

Over the course of the evening, as they ate dinner (pizza delivered from the place across the street) and watched TV, she found herself hoping that Brittany would forget about their Christmas present exchange idea. That would give her time to get something on her own, maybe on Monday, when she had classes. But no such luck. She never forgot anything of that nature. In fact, she even suggested that they go up to the roof to open them, since she hadn't yet seen the view that she'd heard so much about.

Santana pretended to greet this idea with enthusiasm, then secretly slipped the present out of her coat pocket while Brittany dug through her luggage for her own gift. She turned it over, then shook it, trying to figure it out. Something inside moved, and even seemed to jingle a bit, but it was impossible to tell what it was. _Damn them_.

Kurt and Rachel were sitting on the couch, acting as if they were absorbed in an episode of Intervention, but she could tell they weren't really. They were aware of every detail as Santana and Brittany put their coats back on and prepared to go out. And now, oblivious to her bad timing, Brittany stared at them for a few seconds and then seemed to decide that she should make up for her bad behavior earlier this morning. "You guys can come if you want," she offered.

"We didn't want to intrude," Rachel said, but they were both already standing up and heading toward the door, as if they'd been waiting for this exact signal.

In order to have at least a few minutes alone with Brittany, Santana sent them off to buy a bottle of wine from Mr. Bloom. She continued on up the semi-hidden flight of stairs to the roof, pulling Brittany by the hand.

To make the moment more special, she told her to close her eyes, then she led her over to the edge of the building. "Okay... _now_," she said, watching her face.

Brittany opened her eyes and then gasped a little. She stared out over the bay and up toward Manhattan, the bright, shimmering spectacle of it reflected in her eyes. "Wow," she whispered. "It's like in the movies. Only it's real."

"This is what I wanted to show you, more than anything else," Santana said. "Every time I look at this, I think of you."

"It's beautiful," Brittany said.

Santana pressed her lips together, and then in a hesitant way, as if she knew she shouldn't, she asked, "So what do you think, Britt? Are you gonna stay? Are you gonna be a New Yorker with me?"

"Santana." She turned toward her, with an air of trying to let her down gently. "I haven't even been here for forty-eight hours. Or is it twenty-four? Wait, how many are in a day?" She looked puzzled, then moved on. "Anyway... The answer is, I don't know yet. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I know," Santana said, giving her a tiny smile and shrug. "I just thought it was worth a shot."

"Your drinks have arrived, mesdames," Kurt said, appearing in the doorway that led to the stairs and carrying a bottle. "I chose mulled wine, since this is your Christmas celebration." They gave him blank looks. "Because it's a traditional holiday drink," he explained, still not getting any response. "Because of the cinnamon and spices... you know what, just forget it." He set the bottle down with a disdainful air, the way he always did when his attempts at introducing high culture were rebuffed.

Rachel appeared behind him, carrying four wine glasses and looking as if she was afraid she was going to drop them. Brittany moved forward to take two of them from her, but then set them on the ledge of the building, saying, "I think we should open our presents before we drink anything. You can go first,' she told Santana, bouncing up on her toes a little, excited. Santana only wished she felt the same.

She took the tiny box that Brittany handed her and carefully removed the snowman wrapping paper. Underneath was a square silk-covered case, clearly from a jewelry store. She lifted the lid, a bit nervously. Then she stared down at what she found there, momentarily at a loss for words. Nestled inside against a black velvet background were tiny, red, jeweled earrings in the shape of strawberries. She gingerly lifted one out, letting it dangle from her hand. Somehow, it managed to be both adorable and sexy at the same time. "Brittany," she breathed. "These are gorgeous."

"I just wanted you to know that... strawberries are still my favorite," Brittany said, with the hint of a secretive smile.

Swallowing back emotion, Santana looked up and told her just barely above a whisper. "Mine too." They gave each other knowing looks, then broke their gaze when it threatened to get too intense. Rachel and Kurt seemed to sense that it was a private moment and not worth trying to decipher.

"Okay, my turn," Brittany said now, reaching for the other package. Examining it, she said in an impressed voice, "Santana, you did a really good job. Usually when you wrap presents, it looks like a monkey did it."

Annoyed, Santana glanced sideways at Rachel, who of course was enjoying every second of this.

Brittany pulled the paper off, revealing a small white cardboard box. Santana held her breath as she lifted the lid, dreading what she would find. However, the objects on top appeared to be nothing more than two identical strips of heavy, glossy paper. Brittany held them up, angling them toward the light. Out loud, she read the print on the first one. "_NYADA Season Ticket."_

Santana closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and gave Kurt and Rachel a murderous look.

Brittany continued reading. "_This ticket entitles the holder to full admittance to all NYADA concerts, readings, dress rehearsals, and productions for one full calendar year from the date of purchase_." With a strange expression, she looked up and told Santana, "Wow... thanks."

"Santana," Kurt said, feigning surprise with his hand over his heart. "I have to say, this is so touching. And the fact that you got one for yourself too..."

"Yes, it really is touching," Rachel agreed, a sadistic glint in her eyes. "This means that the two of you will have absolutely no excuse for missing _any _of our performances, no matter how minor. Who knows, maybe at some point we'll even do rap!" She smiled with triumph while Santana glared at her. "It was so, so sweet of you to think of us."

"You know, you're right," Santana said, playing along. "It _was _super sweet of me. In fact, it was so sweet, I'd kind of like to re-live that shining moment in my life... can I see those?" she asked, suddenly reaching out to take the tickets from Brittany.

But Rachel was faster and snatched them out of her grasp, saying, "Actually, why I don't just... put these away for safekeeping?" She hurriedly stuck them in the inside pocket of her coat. "I know just where to stash them."

Santana smiled and nodded at Rachel and Kurt, a dangerous edge to the calmness in her voice. "I can think of a couple places too."

Brittany was watching this back-and-forth with a confused look, but then she was distracted by the box she still held. "Wait, there's something else in here." She lifted out a keychain with a picture of the New York City skyline on it. From it hung four keys, which would explain the jingle Santana had heard. Brittany held them up, looking at her in a questioning way. Santana reached over and took the keychain from her, scrutinizing it more closely. To her immense relief, she realized she recognized each one.

"This is the key to our mailbox," she explained, fingering the smallest of the set. "And, um... this is the one to the front door of the building, even though no one's ever actually seen it locked." Brittany leaned against her shoulder, paying close attention. "This is the one for the door that goes to the roof," she said. "Just in case you ever want to come up here by yourself. And... last but not least, the most important one of all. This is the key to our apartment."

Brittany smiled a little, reaching over to take them back. "I can't believe I get my own," she said, sounding awed. "It's like I really live here."

"Yeah," Santana said. "That was sort of the idea."

"I love it," Brittany said. "It's perfect." She started to lean in for a kiss, then glanced at Kurt and Rachel.

"Oh, go ahead," Kurt said in a weary voice.

They kissed, then Brittany pulled her in for a long, tight hug. Santana held her, looking gratefully at Rachel and Kurt over her shoulder. She mouthed the words "Thank you." Their self-satisfied expressions seemed to say _And you thought we were gonna screw it up_.

Now that the gift exchange was complete, Kurt poured the wine. They each took a glass and moved over to the edge of the building, standing against the ledge and looking out over the bay. For a while no one spoke. Then Kurt took a deep breath and let it out, a puff of white in the frigid air. "You know what I'm really looking forward to?"

"Puberty?" Brittany suggested. Santana tried and failed to suppress a snort of laughter.

Ignoring them, he went on. "Spring. I've heard that Brooklyn is beautiful in the springtime."

Rachel gazed out toward the city, obvious yearning in her eyes. "You know, if someone had told me a year ago that I'd be living anywhere other than Manhattan, I would have cried myself to sleep. But in some ways, I think this is even better. It's still close enough to reach out and touch. But when you're right in the middle of it, you can't _see _it like this."

They all stared in the same direction, different hopes and dreams and fears playing across their faces. Only Brittany's attention seemed to be caught not by the gleam of the distant city, but by something much closer - a woman in the building across the street from theirs, a few floors down, who was vacuuming her living room rug. "Is that lady crying?" she asked.

They tore their gazes away from Manhattan and looked to see what she was talking about. It was true; the woman was weeping inconsolably, dragging the vacuum cleaner across the carpet over and over again as if the machine could draw up out of the rug whatever it was that was hurting her. They watched her for a minute, a little sadly.

"I remember when we first moved in here," Rachel said in a soft voice. "It seemed so strange how hardly anyone closes their curtains at night. You can see right into other people's homes... other people's _lives_. But ultimately, they're still strangers. You can never really know their stories."

"But you get used to it," Santana said. Next to her, Brittany shivered slightly, whether from the cold or something else, it was impossible to tell. Santana pressed closer to her, putting her arm around her waist.

Possibly in an attempt to brighten the mood, Kurt held up his wine glass. "I think I'd like to propose a toast," he said. "To Ruby." He smiled. "May she enjoy her time here in our crazy little world... however long that may be."

Brittany smiled back, then stared down at her feet, a bit awkward. "Okay, then... I'd like to propose a toast too. To spring." She looked back up. "Because I think you were right, Kurt. I think it's gonna be amazing."

Trying not to let herself read too much into this, Santana nevertheless felt a thread of hope weaving itself through her. Spring was still at least two months away. If Brittany was still here in two months, then who knew what could happen. Anything. Anything was possible. And right now, standing on this roof with the three people who under almost any definition would have to be considered her family (though she would be loath to admit this even under torture), it was hard to imagine a future that didn't include all of them. _She'll stay_, she thought to herself. _I just know it_. _She has to stay._

Now they all raised their wine glasses, echoing Brittany's toast. "To spring," they repeated, as the city glimmered in the background and the crying woman vacuumed her rug and down on the street below someone's car alarm went off.

They clinked their glasses together and drank.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Annnnd the chapters just keep getting longer.

Re: some of the comments last chapter about Santana being unfair; I don't want to get all long-winded in justification, so I'll just say that my intention was to make the dynamic pretty balanced, considering that Brittany doesn't know whether she's "in love," doesn't know whether she's staying in NY, and didn't seem bothered by the idea of Santana with another girl. IMO all that would be more than enough to cause a guarded character like Santana to be cautious about taking the future for granted. Not that it necessarily proves anything about Brittany's deepest feelings, but my interpretation is that these are two characters who come at relationships from very different perspectives. And that's what I mostly wanted to explore with them in this fic; the issues that arise out of their own personalities and past experiences, and not so much from external sources.

Obviously it should go without saying that all the issues, misunderstandings, etc. will get aired and sorted out before the story is over. But I'm not going to rush it. For the time being, the fact that the future is unsettled doesn't change how they act around each other, as I think this chapter will show.

Anyway, thank you again so much to everyone who takes the time to review. I know you're a small portion of overall readers, but please know you are the ones I'm writing it for. I appreciate it so much.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

(_Amateur video footage begins. Screen reveals Brittany, wearing pajamas, sitting in a stuffed easy chair and facing camera_.)

Brittany: (_smiles_) Lord Tubbington? Hi. It's me. I know you've been having some issues with email ever since your Blackberry was confiscated, so... I thought I'd send you a video letter instead. And this way, it's almost like I'm there in the room with you. (_looks sad for a second_) Even though I'm not really. But we just have to remember what the vet said... that if you lose ten pounds, it'll be safe for you to travel. And then you can come here and stay with me. So you just have to keep at it. I know you can do it. That rowing machine is in the garage for a reason, so you better be using it, mister. I don't want to hear any more excuses.

(_She pauses for a minute, looking around the room_)

Brittany: So, as you can see, this is the apartment. It's a little on the small side, but... to you it'll probably look big because you're so short. No offense. Oh, and this is our new chair... Do you like it? Santana and I bought it yesterday from a guy on the street for forty dollars. He said he needed the money right away to get some angel dust, so I guess he must have been on his way to church. New York is so different from Lima... you'll see when you get here. There are so many people everywhere, but hardly anyone talks to each other. Like, yesterday, on the subway? I told a lady that I liked her shoes, and she told me to go F myself. Except she didn't say F, she said the real word. Santana says I shouldn't talk to strangers, but it's hard because... I always talk to strangers. I _love _strangers. But, they're not like they are at home. (_pauses again, looks troubled_) I guess it'll just take a while to get used to. Anyway...

(_She seems to resolve to be more cheerful, then gets up and approaches the camera, which is lifted and scans the living room_)

Brittany: (_off-screen_) Okay. Now I'm gonna take you on a little tour so that you'll already know the place when you get here. This is the living room. Lots of good places to discreetly hide hairballs. (_moves toward the front window_) And this is our view. Pretty cool right? (_zooms in on Asian man on sidewalk below, who is dodging an object thrown from inside the building_) Uh-oh. Looks like Pete is fighting with the mailman again.

(_Camera moves away from window and out of the room_)

Brittany: And this is the kitchen, obviously. It's pretty much like the one at home, only smaller. (_Her hand reaches out and opens refrigerator door_) The most important thing to remember is not to eat anything that has a gold star sticker on it. Because it may look like real food, but believe me, it's not.

(_Closes fridge and continues on out of kitchen and down hallway. Bathroom door appears to be cracked slightly open, with light behind it_.)

Brittany: Hmm. What do we have here? Santana? (_pushes door open, revealing Kurt standing at the sink shaving_) Oh. It's just you.

Kurt: (_strained smile_) I do _so _love being greeted that way.

Brittany: (_appears behind his shoulder and films both of them through the mirror_) Do you want to say anything to my cat?

Kurt: Not particularly, no.

Brittany: Well, that's too bad, because I think you two would really hit it off. He plays for your team, you know.

Kurt: (_pauses with razor in mid-air_) Your cat is gay?

Brittany: Yes. But I don't think he's quite ready to come out of the closet yet, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything.

Kurt: I'll try to keep it to myself.

(_She films him shaving for a minute_)

Brittany: Kurt. (_after a pause_) Is that really necessary? Or is it, like, a symbolic thing? Like, 'if you shave it, it will come?'

Kurt: (_trying to keep his patience_) This would be a lot easier to do without an audience, Brittany, so if you don't mind...

Brittany: (_skeptical_) If you say so. (_She leaves bathroom, crosses hall and goes down one door, humming Billie Holiday's The Very Thought of You. Her hand reaches out and pushes the door open, revealing a darkened bedroom. Still humming, she brings the camera closer to the bed and zooms in on the lump beneath the covers as she lowers herself into the bedside chair_.)

Brittany: (_whispering excitedly_) Lord Tubbington, look who I found. Could it be your favorite hot lesbian Latina in the whole entire world?

(_Santana stretches and grimaces as she wakes up and notices the camera. She raises her head and then drops it back onto the pillow._)

Santana: _Britt_. Is that thing on?

Brittany: Yes. Do you want to say anything?

Santana: (_sighs in resignation, then turns over onto her side, facing the camera_) Hey Tubs. You're probably pretty pissed at me right now, huh? Well, get over it. Your fat ass had her all to yourself for six entire months. Now it's my turn.

(_angle flips around and Brittany's head appears, leaning back so that she can film herself_)

Brittany: What she means to say is that she misses you, and she can't wait until you're here with us.

(_angle flips again, back to Santana, whose shoulders are bare above the bedspread_)

Brittany: What are you wearing under there, anyway?

Santana: (_grins slyly_) I think you remember what I'm wearing.

(_Brittany's bare foot appears and stretches out toward the top of the blanket_)

Brittany: I think maybe you're not wearing _anything_. (_She grips the bedspread with her toes and yanks it down, revealing a bare breast_)

Santana: (_gasps and pulls the blanket back up_) Brittany! (_laughing_) You better not put that online.

Brittany: Don't worry, it's for my private account. Only like four hundred people have access to it. (_teasingly_) So... it's okay if you want to show us the other one.

Santana: Yeah... I don't think so. (_still laughing, pushes Brittany's insistent foot away_) Stop it!

(_A sudden shaft of light comes from the hallway as the door is opened again._)

Rachel: Santana, I need to borrow some slutty lipstick. It's Top 40 day at school, and somehow I got stuck playing Baby Spice... which is of course outrageous since _everyone _knows I'm Ginger... (_notices camera_) Oh! (_immediately pulls hair around to her shoulder and begins fluffing it_) What are we filming?

Brittany: (_wary_) Nothing.

Rachel: Hold on just a second. (_crosses the room_) I look best in natural light. (_snaps open black drapes, flooding the room with sunshine_)

Santana: (_winces and yanks bedspread up over her head_) God damn it, Rachel!

Brittany: It's just a video for my cat, so you don't really have to... (_trails off_)

Rachel: (_approaches camera with a manic smile_) Helloooo, kitty! (_to Brittany_) Would you like me to sing My Headband to her?

Brittany: He's a boy. And... that's okay. He already has the special edition DVD, so... he's good.

Rachel: (_briefly puzzled_) Oh, I know! I can sing something from the musical Cats! What member of the feline persuasion wouldn't love that?

Brittany: Uh-oh... it says the battery is going dead.

Rachel: Oh no! I'll hurry.

Brittany: (_pretends to be reading_) Battery too low. Auto-shutdown in progress.

Rachel: (_singing fast_) Midniiight, not a sound from the paaaavement! Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alo- (_screen goes black_)

* * *

><p>Lowering the camera in the dazzling morning light, Brittany looked at Rachel with feigned apology. "Sorry. Guess I should have charged it longer."<p>

"Oh," Rachel replied, disappointed. "Well, we can finish later." She went over to Santana's bedside table, opened the drawer, and without permission began digging through it. "Lipstick, lipstick," she muttered to herself. "Santana, why do you have so many double-A batteries?"

Without emerging from underneath the blankets, Santana told her with muffled irritation, "The makeup is on the dresser!" And then, almost as an afterthought, "You obnoxious little troll."

Rachel moved over to the dresser, and apparently finding a lipstick slutty enough for her purposes with relatively little searching, exclaimed "Perfect!" and left the room.

Brittany watched her go, relieved. Eventually, Santana emerged from her cocoon once again. She yawned and propped herself up on one elbow, examining Brittany in the now-bright daylight that streamed unwanted into the room.

"Where did you go? You just disappeared in the middle of the night."

"I went back to the sofa bed for a while," Brittany told her. "You kept stealing the covers."

She wrinkled her nose in apology. "Sorry. Next time I do that, you can just steal 'em back, you know. Or kick me or something."

Brittany smiled a little. "Okay."

"So... what are your plans for today?"

Leaning back in the desk chair, Brittany stretched her feet out onto Santana's bed and considered this question. "I don't know. Since you guys have school, I figured I'd just... hang out here. Is that all right?"

"Of course it's all right. But I've got a better idea. Why don't you come to my classes with me?"

"I can do that?" She seemed uncertain.

"Yeah, people do it all the time. It's college, no one cares." She went on, tracing a circle on the sheets, not meeting Brittany's eyes. "In fact, registration isn't closed yet, so I thought... if you liked it, you could just sign up. I mean, you'd have to stay until the end of May to finish the courses, but... that's really only a few months." She glanced up to check how the idea was being received.

Brittany bit her bottom lip, considering. "I hadn't really thought about it, but... I guess it could be fun. Taking classes together, I mean."

"Are you kidding? It'll be just like high school. People will think we're attached at the hip."

"Okay," Brittany said, looking pleased by the thought. "Let's do it."

"Yeah?" Santana smiled, trying not to let on just how thrilled she was. That had been so much easier than she'd thought it would be. "Only, the thing is, we still have a few hours until we have to go, so..." She lifted the bedspread, cocking an eyebrow invitingly. "There's more than enough time to get our cuddle on."

Taking the hint, Brittany moved over from the chair to slide in next to her, kissing the tip of her nose as she burrowed down into the bed. Santana giggled and pulled the blankets over them.

But then a few seconds later her arm emerged, setting the video camera firmly on the bedside table. "Not gonna happen, Britt."

* * *

><p>Leading Brittany by the arm around the grounds of the city college, Santana was fully aware of the dopey smile plastered to her face, but despite her best efforts, she couldn't seem to banish it for more than a few seconds at a time. It felt so amazing to be here together, giving her the tour, laughing intimately with her, seeing the occasional curious or even jealous glances from other students. For the first time, she was part of one of those happy campus duos she'd so often been envious of.<p>

Because the fact was, even though she'd made acquaintances here - people she talked to in class or could say hi to in the courtyard - her initial sense of isolation had never entirely faded away. It was absurd, but she had to admit to herself that she probably knew most of the NYADA students better than she knew anyone at her own school. Some days it felt like she spent more time there. She knew it was her own fault. She could have reached out more, been more outgoing, gotten more involved in campus organizations.

But she'd learned something about herself in the past year or so, and the truth of it had sunk in even more after leaving Lima. She'd learned, to her surprise, that she wasn't a terribly social person. For years, being in Cheerios had convinced her otherwise. There was the built-in network of nominal friends, the parties and events, the popularity and respect the position commanded. Despite the fact that Glee Club had tarnished her cool factor from the very first day she'd joined, she'd kept up the mingling, the flirting, the requisite appearances at social events, the buoyant exuberance while cheering for the boys on the football field as if she actually gave a flying fuck whether they won or lost. But on that day when she'd been called into Coach Sylvester's office, that day her life had been turned upside down, she'd begun to see that none of it had ever touched the core solitariness that lay underneath. Until that point, only one other person had ever been there.

And now that she was enrolled at this city college, in a place where nobody knew her, where she had no connections or status or claims to popularity, she'd discovered that in some ways the anonymity suited her just fine. She'd realized, to her slight dismay, something that she never would have accepted in high school; that deep down, she was maybe just a bit of a nerd. She liked her classes. She liked arguing with the professors. In general she resented other students for bothering her, whether it was breaking her concentration when she was studying or making her remove her headphones, even if they did so with friendly motives. There were only two categories of people who now mattered - the very few who she was close to, and the strangers at the darkened tables at work, the ones who gave her a reason and an excuse to sing. Anyone who fell into the vast space between these two poles was of little interest to her, and that included everyone at school.

Today, though, she was more than happy to forego solitude. Having Brittany there seemed to change the whole atmosphere of the place, giving the day a unique feel, the way your birthday or some special event seems to subtly brighten the colors of everything and reflect your usual world back to you from a different angle. After giving her a general tour of the campus and showing her how to orient herself, she asked, "So what do you think?" as they headed toward the first class.

"I like it," Brittany said. "It looks more like high school than I thought it would."

"Yeah, well... it's not a university," she said dryly. "No ivy covered turrets up in here."

Brittany was quiet for a minute. "You know that one school you got into, in Pennsylvania? The fancy one?"

"Bryn Mawr," Santana supplied.

"Yeah. How come you didn't go there?"

Santana looked over at her, wondering why she was asking. "I told you, because I wanted to live in New York. Once I got that stuck in my head, I couldn't stand the thought of going anywhere else."

There was a lull in the conversation as they ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Brittany picked up the thread. "So... it wasn't at all because you knew I could never go there?"

Avoiding eye contact now and feeling like she'd been caught at something, even though she wasn't even sure if she had, Santana said, "No, that's not why."

"Because I'd hate to think that you gave up something like that for me."

They entered the lecture hall, and leading Brittany to their seats in the very back allowed her a few seconds to compose her answer. "I didn't. I just didn't like the place. When I took a campus tour, I felt like I was suffocating in all the wholesomeness. It's beautiful there, but... it wasn't a good fit for me. I wanted to be here." She paused, adding, "And it's not like I didn't try to get into the good New York schools. My dad even threatened to blackmail someone at NYU, but it didn't work. There were just too many applicants this year. Maybe if my grades had been better, or if I'd been a _little _more ethnic..."

Brittany smiled a bit. "Okay. I just wanted to make sure, is all."

Santana busied herself getting out her notebook and textbook. She hadn't mentioned that there was one nearly surefire way she could have gotten into the best schools, but that despite her parents and Ms. Pillsbury's insistence, she'd refused to do it. They'd wanted her to use the outing, to write essays describing it in detail, maybe even send along a copy of the campaign commercial to better emphasize how horrifying it had all been. The thought of it made her sick. She'd be damned if she was going to play the victim card in order to try to win out over other people's sob stories.

A few minutes later the instructor arrived, and class began. It was biology, and the scheduled topic today was genetics. Santana could practically see Brittany's eyes glaze over with boredom the minute it was announced, but it was too late for her to do anything about it now. She couldn't skip the class, because there was a quiz on Wednesday and she wanted to make sure she got all the notes. So she opened her binder, hoping maybe there'd be something that would spark Brittany's interest in the lecture. If nothing else, maybe she could raise her hand and ask controversial questions about "the gay gene," just to liven things up.

Brittany seemed to be determined to amuse herself, however. For a few minutes she spun back and forth in her swivel chair. She took out her phone and began playing with it, suppressing laughter at something she found there. Santana kept taking notes, trying to ignore her. Next, Brittany took a picture of her feet, which she sent to Quinn. Five minutes later Quinn responded with a picture of her own feet, which Brittany insisted on showing to Santana, whispering, "Those shoes make her look menopausal." Though she had to agree with this assessment, when she looked back up, the whiteboard was being erased, and she hadn't managed to copy down the last few lines.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Brittany put her phone away, but it was short-lived, because next she took out her video camera, which Santana hadn't even realized she'd brought. She began surreptitiously filming each person in the class, zooming in on their profiles and the backs of their heads. To Santana's embarrassment, the professor eventually became aware of what was going on, interrupting his lecture to say, "Um, no cameras please. Tape recorders only." Everyone turned around to stare, and Santana felt like crawling under the table.

"Okay. Sorry," Brittany said, looking miffed. She put the camera away.

For a blessed interval she stopped fidgeting and watched the professor. Santana continued taking notes, grateful for the lack of distractions. Maybe Brittany was actually paying attention now. The subject currently under discussion was the exact way that specific traits get passed down from one generation to another. It was _sort of_ interesting, Santana thought. A few minutes later, though, she felt the slightest, faintest tickling sensation against her ankle. She shifted her legs a little, ignoring it. But then it was there again, the pressure a bit more noticeable now. With a tiny shiver of sensation, she realized that Brittany had taken off her shoes and was now sliding her bare foot along Santana's calf, massaging it. She stared straight ahead at the instructor, trying to focus her thoughts on phenotypes and not on the amazing and borderline-unnatural things Brittany was doing with her toes, which were more flexible than some people's fingers.

Eventually, she forced herself to put a stop to it by re-crossing her legs and shifting her ankles further underneath her chair, putting them out of reach. Brittany gave her a mischievous glance, but she relented. Only momentarily, though, because next it was her hand that began its campaign of distraction, starting at Santana's knee, just where her skirt ended. For a minute her fingers softly traced along the hemline, and Santana felt an alarming flush of heat move through her. She pressed her lips together and stared down at her notes, which suddenly appeared to be written in a different language, for all the sense they made. Her pulse quickened as Brittany's fingers now strayed higher, underneath the edge of the skirt, continuing up along her inner thigh.

The arrangement of the classroom consisted of tiered rows of long, counter-like desktops, with swivel chairs bolted underneath them at intervals. Luckily, the two of them were in the very back and in the corner, so that there was no one behind them or on the left side. But there was a girl sitting to Santana's right, only a few feet away, and if she'd glanced under the counter or leaned down to get something out of her backpack, she would have seen exactly what was going on. Right now, though, this thought that should have inspired caution only made things that much more exciting. Knowing she shouldn't, but past caring, Santana parted her knees just a tiny bit to give easier access. Brittany was staring ahead, seemingly absorbed in the lecture, but a sly, triumphant smile touched her lips when she noticed.

Making every effort to keep jotting down notes, though by this point she had no idea what she was writing, Santana felt Brittany's hand travel in a leisurely path higher and higher up her leg. She had the sudden crazed urge to take off her bra, which seemed to have grown too tight and which grated against her like sandpaper every time she drew in air, but she resisted by gripping the pen. In her lust-addled state, however, even this innocent object had a vaguely obscene look about it. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths.

When Brittany's fingers finally, after an agonizing trip, reached the juncture of her thighs and pressed against her, Santana drew in a loud, sharp intake of breath, clamping her legs together on the invading hand. The girl sitting next to her turned to give her a curious look. Santana gestured toward the board, at a diagram showing how red hair could skip a generation due to recessive genes. "It's such a miracle," she whispered.

The girl nodded in a polite way, probably mistaking her for a science geek.

Brittany seemed to be trying not to laugh. Santana kept her hand pinned where it was, not letting her have it back, but not letting her finish what she'd been doing either. Luckily, there were only a few minutes of class left. When the instructor told them that that was it for today, reminding them that they had a quiz at their next meeting, she finally relaxed her legs. But then she quickly packed up her things, stood, and took Brittany by the hand that had so recently been tormenting her. "Come with me. Right now."

"Uh-oh," Brittany said coyly. "Am I in trouble?"

She led her up to the third floor, where the chemistry labs were. It was only by chance that she happened to know of a little-used supply closet, filled nearly to the brim with outdated textbooks and old slide projectors. Last semester she'd been sent there to retrieve a microscope, and even at the time, months before Brittany's arrival, she'd made a mental note that it would be the perfect spot if they were ever so inclined...

And today, they were definitely so inclined. She pushed Brittany in, the door barely closed behind them before they attacked each other in a blur of battling tongues, writhing hips, and groping hands. They didn't bother to look for a light switch. The illumination coming in from under the door was just enough.

Santana felt herself being hoisted onto some kind of desk. The tug of desire she felt every time Brittany lifted her up like that was surely out of all proportion to the act itself. Why did it get to her so much? Now her skirt was shoved up all the way to her hips, and Brittany picked up where she'd left off in the classroom. In an effort to keep pace, Santana tugged her closer by the waist band of her jeans and shoved her hand down all the way into her underwear, startling Brittany enough so that she broke their kiss with a rewarding gasp.

But even so, Santana suspected she would lose this race, as she always did, and she was right. With hardly any warning she came in a blinding flash, knocking her head back against the wall behind her while Brittany sucked on the hollow of her throat, her fingers buried deep. She continued to rock her hips against her hand for a few seconds, then leaned toward her and dropped her forehead onto her shoulder while she tried to catch her breath. She resolved again that one day, she would be the one to hold out the longest. It was just that Britt had gotten a head start.

In order to get back at her for the teasing she'd endured in the classroom, she now raked her fingernails up Brittany's abdomen, unhooking her bra in one fluid motion. Then she raised her shirt and gripped her by the hips, pulling her in closer so she could bend forward to trace gradually narrowing circles with her tongue around each breast, a tactic she knew drove her absolutely crazy. It worked, as usual. Her breathing turned shaky and labored, and eventually, growing impatient, she lifted one agile leg onto the desk and hooked it around Santana's hips. Never shy about what she wanted, she grabbed her hand and forced it between her legs. Santana smiled a little and let her shirt drop, consenting to focus attention elsewhere. Brittany moved against her with increasing urgency, and by the time her one supporting leg began to buckle underneath her, they were both short of breath again.

Santana tried to support her weight while she shuddered against her, but Brittany was too strong, and somehow ended up pulling them both down onto the floor. A small mountain of textbooks collapsed on top of them, luckily only paperbacks. Brittany lay on her back, still panting, Santana straddling her, perched above her with her hair cascading down against her face. Reaching up, Brittany tucked the loose strands behind her ears for her. There was just barely enough light to see each other by, and Santana leaned down for one more kiss.

She could feel Brittany's grin as she broke away. "You were right," she said, looking up at her. "It's just like high school."

Santana smiled back, but now that the heat of the moment was past, she realized that the fact that she was on the floor of a dark supply closet with her skirt hiked up around her waist, her underwear soaked through, and Brittany's bra dangling from her hand was... maybe just a bit ridiculous. So much for showcasing the joys of collegiate life. This felt more like the seventh grade.

"Shit," she now said, suddenly wondering how long they'd been in here. "What time is it?"

She pulled Brittany up from the floor and the two of them attempted to quickly compose themselves. By the time they'd stopped by the bathroom to rearrange their clothes and clean up, another five minutes had passed. And she still had to get to a building on the other side of campus for her next class.

"This is my favorite one," she explained to Brittany as they hurried along the path.

"What is it?"

"Western Civilization." At Brittany's slightly daunted look, she hastened to clarify, "History. I don't know why they don't just call it that."

"Oh. Why do you like it?"

"I don't know, it's just... when you see how many thousands of years people have been acting like cruel, ignorant asswipes, it kind of puts things in perspective. And I like the ancient Greeks. After Broadway, it's got to be like the second gayest culture in the history of the world." They reached the social sciences building and went in, Santana holding the door open. "Plus the professor likes me."

"Really?" Brittany smiled at her.

"I don't know," she said with a shrug, embarrassed now. "But he's always making me debate stuff with him. He says I should go to law school."

Brittany was quiet for a second, absorbing this. "Wow," she said softly.

By this time they'd reached the classroom door, and Santana started to go in. But the knob wouldn't turn. She rattled it again, and nothing. It was locked.

Now, for the first time, she noticed a fading print-out taped up just under the room number on the outside of the door. It read: _Come on time or not at all._

"Damn it," she said in defeat. "I never saw that before." _Because you've never been late before_, a voice in her head told her. She continued to stare at the door for a few seconds, as if it would magically open. "Well, this sucks."

"I feel like it's my fault," Brittany said, guilty.

"What? No it's not," she assured her. Slowly, they began making their way back down the hall. There was no point in hanging around. "You didn't even know about the closet... that was my idea."

"Yeah, but I'm the one who got you all... you know."

"And how do you know it wasn't all that talk about dominant genes that did it? Because that was pretty hot." They traded amused looks.

After a minute Brittany sighed. Then, as if she'd come to a decision, she said, "Maybe... we shouldn't take the exact same classes. I don't think we're good influences on each other. At least when it comes to school."

Santana had to laugh a little. That was an understatement. And though she didn't want to agree, she had to. "Maybe you're right."

"So I think... I'll register for my own. I'm pretty sure my parents'll pay for it. And that way we can still hang out here and have lunch and stuff, but we won't be distracting each other all the time."

"That sounds perfect," Santana said, giving her an admiring look. She took her hand as they headed back across campus.

In a way, it was sad to think that they might never take another class together. But if today's had to be the last one, it was at least a memorable way to go out. And she was fairly certain that she would never be able to think of genetics in quite the same way again.

* * *

><p>Santana stretched out on the bed - Rachel's bed, to be exact - and held the script up in front of her. With a heavy sigh, she read out the line. "<em>But Rosalia, why will you not comprehend me? My soul reeks of love for you. It is the greatest love of all<em>." She made a face. "That doesn't even make sense."

Pacing the floor with her own script, Rachel ignored this last bit of commentary and read her next line. "_Do not mistake me, Diego! For when I texted you last night, it was with the intention that the two of us should become one. But when shall the timing be right?_" She stopped pacing, considering the page. "Should I put the emphasis on _timing_? Or on _right_?"

Staring at her for a few seconds as if wondering whether she was serious, Santana said, "I really don't think it matters."

Rachel made a note with her pen. "Okay, go on."

She checked the clock. Then, reluctantly, she returned to the script. "_Rosalia, why must you torment me so? Is it because of Alessandro? Do you have feelings for him that are more than the average kind of feelings, feelings like the feelings you once felt for me?_"

"Could you try not to sound so sarcastic?" Rachel said. "If you don't read it like you mean it, I can't react properly."

Suppressing the response she would have liked to make to this, Santana read out the line again in a louder and less sarcastic, if not necessarily more convincing, tone of voice.

"_No, no Diego!_" Rachel responded, going back into character. "_My feelings for Alessandro are those of the utmost friendship, due in no small part to his delightfully flaming homosexuality. But my feelings for you are unspeakable! I strain and strain to push them out, to force them through the opening of my inmost soul, but they refuse to move! They simply remain, a constant blockage of desire_."

Santana gave a snort of laughter, then tried to continue. "_Rosalia, my treasure_..." But she couldn't go any further. "Okay, straight up, I can't do this. This play is _awful_. I mean, who the hell wrote this thing?"

Rachel was quiet for a second, looking sheepish. "I did."

"_Oh_." Damn. Now she felt sort of bad. "Seriously?"

"That was the assignment... to write and perform our own one-act plays."

"Well... that explains a lot."

Coming toward her, Rachel reached out to take the script. "You know what, don't worry about it, I'll just have Kurt go over it with me later."

"No," Santana said, holding it out of her reach. "I said I'd help, and I'm going to. It's just..." She said. "Okay, your heroine doesn't sound lovesick so much as constipated. People aren't gonna be rooting for her to get the guy, they're gonna be rooting for her to get some fiber in her diet. And why is everyone talking like it's 1790?"

Rachel sank down on the bed next to her, looking morose. "I know. I knew it was bad when I wrote it. I'm the worst playwright in the world."

"God, you and your massive ego," Santana said, rolling her eyes. "You can't just be bad at something, you have to be the worst in the world. Even at sucking, you have to top everyone else." With her foot, she nudged Rachel's knee, evoking a grudging smile of acknowledgement at the truth of these words. "Well don't flatter yourself, Susan Lucci. It's just mediocre. It can be fixed." She paused, then said with resignation, "Hand me that pen."

Santana started making notes on the script in her lap, crossing out approximately every other line of dialogue and writing in alternatives. After a few minutes she glanced at the clock again.

Rachel noticed. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Checking the time. If you need to be somewhere..."

"No, it's not that. It's just..." She seemed hesitant to say it out loud. "Brittany should have been home like ten minutes ago."

"Oh. Well, the trains are probably just running late."

"Yeah, I know." She sighed. "And I know I can't go everywhere with her. She doesn't _want _me to. But it still makes me nervous when she's out there by herself. She gets so distracted sometimes... what if she gets on the wrong line and ends up in the South Bronx or something?"

Rachel thought about this. "You know, I never told anyone, but the first week we lived here, I was coming home alone from uptown one night, and I got so absorbed in my Julie Andrews biography that I missed my transfer and got off in Bed-Stuy." She shuddered. "It was terrifying. I didn't think I was gonna get out of there alive."

Santana stared at her. "Has anyone ever told you that you are _shit _at comforting people?"

Realizing too late that she'd said the worst thing possible, Rachel tried to backtrack. "But I'm sure everything is fine. Brittany can take care of herself... she's tougher than people give her credit for. Trust me, I would know." She added, as if to herself, "She really doesn't like me very much."

"What are you talking about?" Santana said. "Brittany loves everyone."

"If you say so," she replied, not appearing convinced.

Santana continued making notes on the script. After a minute, she asked, "Why do all the characters have Spanish names?"

"I don't know, I just thought it made them sound more dramatic, and passionate." She paused, looking worried. "Is that racist?"

Santana shook her head a little in exasperation, but didn't look up from the page.

"Maybe I should take a writing class at your school," Rachel said. "Brittany seems to be liking it there, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, from what I can tell. It's been over a week since she started, and I haven't heard any complaints... other than the fact that she can't fully trust a school that doesn't have a mascot. I just wish our schedules could have overlapped more. By the time she registered, it was slim pickin's when it came to course openings."

"Still, though, you must be so proud of her. It can't be easy to start classes when you've already missed the first week of the term. I'm amazed she was able to catch up so easily, considering..." But then she clamped her lips together, as if physically restraining herself from the unintended insult she'd been about to commit.

"I _am _proud of her," Santana said, surprised that she could ignore the offending remark that she'd seen coming even before Rachel had. But also she was a little surprised by the sincerity she felt compelled to answer with. For a minute she seemed to be considering how much she wanted to share. Then, as if she couldn't help herself, she looked up from the script and said in a confiding voice, "So, check it, when she has this class again on Thursday, she's got this big test, right? And I was thinking I'd get myself all dolled up and wait outside the door to surprise her when it's over. Then I'm gonna take her out for this whole epic romantic night on the town... where I will be dropping some _serious _coin. Total big pimpin' style. Fancy restaurant, ballet, Empire State Building, all that cheesy stuff that'll make her swoon."

Rachel was smiling, picturing it. "That's so sweet. She'll love it." Then a shadow seemed to pass over her features. She looked down at the bedspread. "I miss romance."

"Yeah, speaking of that..." Santana leaned back, contemplative. "What's the dealio with you and Sir-Sweats-a-Lot, anyway? I notice the two of you haven't been having as many of your marathon three-hour phone conversations where you breathe lustily at each other. Not that I'm complaining," she added.

"I don't know," Rachel said with a little shrug, still avoiding meeting her gaze. "Ever since winter break, things are just... complicated."

But from the somberness that had touched her face, and from the look in her eyes now, it seemed like things might have already edged past _complicated _and into something more near to _serious trouble_.

Santana was on the verge of pressing for more information, but before she could manage to say anything, they both looked up as they heard the front door open.

Footsteps came down the hall, hesitant, and then Brittany appeared in the bedroom doorway. Santana gave her a huge smile of relief. "Hey. I was just getting ready to call you."

For a few seconds she stared at the two of them on Rachel's bed with an unreadable expression. "Sorry," she said with a tight smile. "Class ran a little late."

Standing up, Santana crossed the room and gave her a welcome-home peck on the lips. "Do you need help studying or anything? Or with homework?"

"Nope, I think I'm good," Brittany said quickly. Then, changing the subject, she said in an overtly flirtatious manner, "But there is _one _thing you could help me with. A different kind of project that needs... completing."

Santana returned the look, feeling the immediate magnetic pull toward her. "Yeah?" she teased, leaning against the doorjamb and gazing up at her in an amorous way. "It's true, we haven't worked on _that _project yet today, at all."

With a sigh, Rachel stood up and grabbed her sweater. "You know," she told them, "when you look at each other like that, it makes it pretty easy to crack your secret code." In a dignified huff, she pushed past them through the doorway and said, "I'm going to get the mail."

The two of them continued to stare at one another with yearning. But in an act of the utmost restraint, they waited until they heard the front door close before they pounced on each other.

* * *

><p>The next night, Wednesday, Santana sat on the couch, balancing her math homework on top of Brittany's lower legs, which were draped across her lap. She was tired from her shift at work. It had been more physically demanding than usual, due to a bitter girl in the audience who kept requesting angry break-up songs. But she still had to get this assignment done before tomorrow.<p>

Brittany had her laptop out, switching her attention between it and the TV, where Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey was playing. It had been her turn to pick what they watched, and this is what she'd insisted on. Kurt had turned his nose up in disdain at the prospect of a nineties movie featuring talking animals, but Santana noticed there were occasional mysterious sniffles coming from the easy chair where he sat, especially when Sassy was reunited with the two dogs. _He's so predictable_, she thought.

Underneath her notebook, Brittany's legs suddenly jerked just the slightest bit, enough to cause her pencil to wobble. Santana glanced up to see that she was laughing at something on her computer screen. "I wish _my _homework was that fun," she said.

"Oh," Brittany said, looking a tiny bit guilty. "Actually, it's not homework. I'm editing my video to Lord Tubbington. I've been adding some more footage to it this week. It turns out, ferrets do not like getting their picture taken. And neither did Rhonda... I think she thought I was an undercover drug cop."

Smiling at her, Santana said, "I hope your cat appreciates all that work." Then, as if just thinking of it, she added in a low voice, "You're gonna take out the part with my boob, right?"

Brittany seemed amused. "I haven't decided yet."

Santana gave her a playful shove before she went back to her algebra. But after a few seconds she wrinkled her nose in distaste. _That godawful smell_. Rachel had a penchant for the strongest, most cloyingly sweet vanilla-scented candles she could possibly find. They were almost nauseating. Gently pulling herself out from under Brittany's legs, she got up and circled around the couch to the end table, leaning over and blowing the candle out with one no-nonsense puff of air.

On the way back around, she happened to glance at the laptop. She stopped, staring down at the screen in astonishment. "Wow," she breathed, perching on the arm of the couch to see better. "Is that our building?"

"Yeah," Brittany said. "I wanted to film it with the sun setting behind it like that."

"Brittany, that's beautiful," she told her, looking away from the screen to examine her face in profile, still a little surprised. "You're really good at this stuff."

She looked up at her, a tiny pleased smile touching her lips. "Thanks."

Bending her head a little, she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Brittany's temple. Then, with reluctance, she forced herself to get up and return to her homework.

She had hardly gotten resettled on the couch, however, when Rachel appeared in the room with her usual dramatic flourish, swooping over to the end table. "You see?" she said, perplexed. "It went out _again_. I wish I could figure out where that draft is coming from."

Santana gave her an innocent shrug.

Rachel re-lit the candle, and then, instead of seeing that they were busy and taking herself elsewhere, she came and stood directly in front of the couch. "While I'm thinking of it, I need to ask the two of you an important question... and I hope you'll tell me the truth."

"No, we did not have sex in your room yesterday," Brittany said, without looking away from her laptop. "We thought about it, but we decided it was just too weird."

Her mouth falling open a bit, Rachel stared at her in baffled dismay.

Finally, Brittany looked up. "Was that not the question?"

"Rachel, spit it out!" Santana demanded, growing impatient.

"I.." she started, then closed her eyes and shook her head as if trying to clear the unwanted and alarming vision she'd been forced to contemplate. She tried again. "What I wanted to ask is... In your honest opinion, do you think I'm a well-rounded person?"

Santana laid down her pencil and pretended to consider the question. "Well, your nose, definitely. And maybe your ass a little. The rest of you, not so much."

"Santana, you know what I mean."

"Okay, fine," she said, laughing a little. "Then the answer is no. I don't think you're a well-rounded person."

"Why not?"

"_Because_," she said, like it should be obvious. "You're obsessed with one thing and one thing only. Stardom." At Rachel's disappointed look, she added, "It's not like it's a bad thing. It's just who you are."

Rachel sighed, turning toward the stuffed chair. "You see, Kurt, this is exactly what I was trying to tell you this morning."

He was still absorbed in the movie, though, and didn't seem to hear her. "It's just... you think Shadow didn't make it, but then... he does," he muttered, his eyes shining with tears. "He made it home."

"Kurt!" Rachel said sharply.

He finally noticed her. "_What_?"

"This is a serious problem that we need to talk about." She sat down on the edge of the coffee table to face him, as if this would emphasize the seriousness. "I realized it when I was working on that playwriting assignment... which, thanks to Santana's help, I got a passing grade on..."

"Holla," Santana cried softly, raising one hand in acknowledgement, but not bothering to look up from her math homework. She didn't care that much.

Rachel continued, "But the fact remains that aside from being an amazing singer, and dancer, and actress, and songwriter... my non-theatrical skill set is woefully small. And you, my friend, are in the same boat."

"That's ridiculous," he told her. "We have plenty of other skills."

"Like what?" she challenged him.

He seemed hard pressed to come up with anything. "You make delicious cookies," he said after a long pause. "And I love fashion."

She rolled her eyes a little. "That hardly counts. Fashion and theater are like two sides of the same gay coin. Look, NYADA is a great school, but you can't deny that it's made us a little fanatical. Kurt, I think you and I have to face the fact that we're becoming pedants."

Her attention caught by this, Brittany looked up. "Oh my God you're pregnant?"

Santana scoffed in delight. "Can you even imagine their kid? It would probably be tap dancing on the ultrasound."

"Not parents, _pedants_," Rachel said, annoyed. "People who are obsessed with the intricacies of one subject, and never talk about anything else." She turned back to Kurt. "I just don't want us to get older and end up being those boring people who everyone avoids at parties."

"Well, let's be honest here," Santana piped up. "You're _already _those people, so I wouldn't worry about it too much."

Ignoring her, Rachel continued, plaintive. "What if we end up regretting not experiencing more of life when we had the chance? What if our circle of friends withers away because we're not capable of conversing on any subject other than theater?"

"Rachel, I don't know what you're getting so upset about. Even if that happened, we would still have each other." Then, hearing these words after he'd uttered them, Kurt's face took on a disturbed, mildly frightened look as he gazed into a future in which the only person left in his life was Rachel Berry. "Maybe you're right," he relented after a few seconds, still contemplating this dreadful vision. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to broaden our horizons a bit."

"Yes!" she said, smacking him on the knee. "I knew you'd see it my way." She stood up, pointing her finger. "Tomorrow, just this once, you and I are going to play hooky, and we are going to begin Cultivating Our Interests." The way she said it made it sound about as much fun as getting a flu shot.

She strode out of the room, probably to begin drawing up lists and flow charts and timetables. Kurt watched her go with a daunted expression.

Rising from the couch, Santana gave him a smile that held not even the tiniest bit of sympathy. "Good luck with that," she told him.

Then she leaned over and blew the candle out again.

* * *

><p>Coming up the stairs the next day after her classes were over, Santana reflected, not for the first time, on what a pain in the ass it was to live on the fourth floor of a building that had no elevator. God forbid one of them ever broke their leg or something. And what if Artie came to visit? They'd have to carry him and that damn wheelchair up to the very top. And then he'd be stuck there until someone carried him back down. She had a momentary mental image of the four of them hoisting both him and the chair up from the sidewalk with ropes, like a piano, which was exactly the kind of uncharitable thought that made her glad no one could see inside her head.<p>

She rounded the corner from the third floor landing to the last flight of stairs leading to their floor, but then suddenly froze at the bottom. Brittany was sitting at the very top of the steps, a notebook open on her lap, wearing headphones. The door to the roof was propped open, letting in one long, slanting beam of afternoon sunlight that fell just over her back and the top of her head, touching her hair with a soft, golden glow. Santana stood there for a few seconds, unnoticed in the shadowy stairwell, watching her. _My God, she's beautiful_. She couldn't have explained why the image moved her so much. But it was clear to her that her efforts to hold a little piece of her heart in reserve were doomed.

Slowly, she began the ascent to the top. Brittany finally noticed her and looked up. She smiled, taking her headphones off. "Hey," she said.

"Hey." Santana sat down beside her. "Last minute studying?"

"Yeah." Brittany closed her notebook, which, at a quick glance, seemed to have a glossy magazine opened up inside of it. But then, Santana reflected, last semester she'd had an English teacher assign a Harlequin romance novel as part of the curriculum, so you never could tell.

"Why are you sitting out here?"

She gestured toward the door of their apartment, weary. "I just had to get away from them for a while."

"Oh, right," Santana said, remembering that Kurt and Rachel had skipped school today. "When I left this morning they were reading War and Peace out loud to each other."

"Yeah, they gave up on that after about twelve pages. Right now the kitchen table is covered with fabric, because Rachel is making a quilt." Brittany's ironic expression conveyed exactly how she felt about this project. "And Kurt was practicing fly fishing in the living room, but he kept catching the couch cushions. So I made him go out to the balcony... but then he caught some lady's weave, and she was _not _happy about it. I thought she was gonna climb up the side of the building."

Santana laughed a little. "I'm so sorry. I feel like I should apologize for their lameness."

"It's not your fault," Brittany assured her.

"So, are you nervous about your big test today? Because, I just wanted to tell you, you shouldn't wig out about it too much. Last semester I bombed my first Lit test, and I still ended up getting an A minus in the class."

Brittany gave her a tiny smile, but she seemed uncomfortable. "I'm not worried about it."

"Good." Reaching out, Santana tenderly ran her hand down through Brittany's hair, twining a piece of it around her fingers. "I'm really proud of you, you know."

She waited a few seconds before replying. "Santana..." she began.

But just then, Mr. Bloom's voice echoed and reverberated up through the stairwell. "_Dark Sappho_!" he boomed at them, trudging up the stairs with a large grocery bag in his arms. "_Could not verse immortal save, That breast imbued with such immortal fire_? _Could she not live who life eternal gave?_" He caught his breath, then announced as he neared the top of the stairs. "Lord Byron!"

Santana considered for a second, then quoted back to him, "_I ain't gotta get a plaque, I ain't gotta get awards, I just walk up out the door, all the girls will applaud_." She paused, then added, "Nicki Minaj."

"Ha ha!" he thundered. "Stupendous!" As if for a reward, he pulled a bottle of merlot from the grocery bag and handed it down to her. Judging by his glowing red cheeks, it seemed he'd already been enjoying some wine himself today. Santana smiled after him while he let himself into his apartment.

When the door had closed behind him, she turned back and said, "I keep thinking one of these days he's gonna figure out that I don't know any real poetry."

Brittany checked her watch. "Shoot, I better go." She slid her notebook into her backpack and stood.

Santana got up with her. "Okay, well... good luck."

On the second step down, Brittany turned back, as if realizing she'd forgotten something. Reading her thoughts, Santana bent toward her for a kiss. From where she stood on the top of the stairs, she was the tallest by just a few inches, which was an odd feeling. They leaned into each other, and Brittany brought her hands up to cup Santana's face, rubbing her thumbs lightly over her cheeks. She seemed not to want to break away, and she lingered on her top lip, her eyes closed. Santana felt that familiar breathless, fluttering sensation that these kinds of leisurely kisses always induced in her, and she gripped the stair rail to keep a firm hold on reality.

When Brittany at last pulled back just slightly, they regarded each other. There was something sad about her expression, and Santana had the sudden urge to tell her about the big night she had planned. Maybe it would cheer her up, give her something after the test to look forward to. But she stopped herself. She'd managed to keep it a secret for days now, so it would make no sense to spoil it at the last minute. It would be more fun if it was a surprise.

Brittany finally turned to go. "See you later," she said, heading down into the shadows.

"Be safe," Santana called after her.

* * *

><p>To her relief, Kurt and Rachel were just preparing to go out when she let herself in to the apartment.<p>

"Do you want to come with us?" Kurt said. "We're going to rent a - "

"No," she cut him off, not even needing to hear the rest of that sentence.

"Santana has big plans for tonight," Rachel reminded him.

"Oh, that's right," he said. "Well, have fun with your schmaltz. And just to offer a word of advice, if you _do _go to the ballet, I would avoid the broom closets there. Because I've been in one, and they're not the most romantic accommodations. Let's just say there was an incident with a mop cart that's best left undescribed."

Santana made a disgusted face. "Please leave now," she told them.

After they were gone, she put the bottle of wine on ice, thinking that it would be a nice capper for what would hopefully be the perfect date. Then she took her time getting ready. After removing a tray of what she could only assume were some kind of flower bulbs from the bathtub (_and where the hell are they going to plant flowers_?) she had a long soak using Rachel's fancy bubble bath, making sure to add some water to the bottle so it wouldn't look like she'd taken any. She re-did her toenails and fingernails. She spent a ridiculous amount of time on her makeup, and then tried about six different hairstyles before she decided on the one that worked, an up-do that drew attention to the strawberry earrings she was wearing for the first time tonight, and which her entire outfit was coordinated around.

She thought about bringing something along for Brittany to change into, since she'd been dressed pretty casually for class. But then she decided she'd just take her shopping instead, let her pick out something new. After spritzing herself with the perfume that her mom insisted on giving her for Christmas every year, and which she didn't particularly care for but which she knew Brittany loved, she checked the mirror one more time and put her coat on. Brittany's second class should just be starting, and if she left now she would be there in plenty of time, even if she finished her test early.

On the way down the sidewalk to the subway station, she was grateful for the fact that the sun, though on its way down, was still shining brightly over the roofs of the neighborhood, and that it was a mild day for January. She wanted the weather to remain perfect. For some reason, she felt slightly nervous about the whole evening, which was stupid. It wasn't like this was their first date. But she'd put so much effort into it that she was eager for everything go off without a hitch. Had she left enough time between the restaurant reservation and the beginning of the ballet? How long would shopping for an entire outfit take? She was new at this whole planning-for-romance concept. What if she screwed it up?

From up ahead in the distance, she was distracted by some kind of bell dinging, and she shaded her eyes to see what it was. Immediately, she wished she hadn't. Oh God. Oh dear sweet Jesus on the cross. On the other side of the street, coming from the opposite direction, were Rachel and Kurt... _riding a tandem bicycle_. She tried to make herself inconspicuous, praying they wouldn't notice her. She even went so far as to attempt to hide behind the man who was standing beside her waiting to cross the street. But it was no use.

"Santana!" Rachel called, waving and then ringing the bell again, which very nearly caused the two of them to plow into a fire hydrant.

"Rachel, if you want to be in the front, you have to _steer_!" Kurt lectured her.

Santana watched with mortified fascination as they continued haltingly down the street. Then, to the guy next to her at the crosswalk who was giving her a questioning look, she turned and said in a blank voice, "Who _were _those people?"

At the station, she had a momentary flare-up of temper when the train was a few minutes late, even though the guy selling newspapers told her there was nothing he could do about it and asked her to please get out of his kiosk, but she calmed down again once she was on the way into Manhattan. After emerging from underground, she made one last spur-of-the-moment stop at a florist's, where she bought a single long-stemmed red rose. Even as she paid for it, part of her was groaning at herself and the over-the-top cheesiness of this gesture, but what the hell? If she was going to do this thing, she might as well do it right.

Once on campus, she double-checked the schedule that Brittany had given her, even though she'd already committed it to memory, and then made her way to the English building. Inside, she located the classroom and sat down on a bench outside it to wait. The door was closed, which was probably a good thing, because if Brittany had caught a glimpse of her it would no doubt have destroyed her always-tenuous concentration.

Gradually, after about ten minutes, students started to emerge one at a time as they finished their tests. She tried to ignore the odd looks they gave her. It was too late to worry about feeling ridiculous now.

Twenty minutes passed, then thirty. The trickle of students slowed, then seemed to stop altogether. _Oh, Britt_, she thought, feeling bad. She must be the last one still working on hers. Santana wondered if she should have been more insistent about helping her study. But she wasn't her mom... other than offering, what more could she do?

She leaned her head back against the cold plastered blocks of the wall behind her, trying to stifle her impatience. What the hell kind of test was this, anyway? It was only the third week of school. She began to nurture a grudge against the teacher.

But to her surprise, it seemed to be the teacher herself who next emerged from the classroom - a middle-aged woman carrying a satchel who wore glasses on a chain around her neck. As she came out of the room, she turned the lights off before closing the door.

Santana stood up, confused. Noticing her, the woman stopped before moving off down the hall and asked, "Can I help you?"

She tried to think of what to say. "Yeah, um... are you sure there's no one else in there?"

The woman looked at her like she doubted her intelligence. "Yes, I'm fairly certain. Would you like me to look again?"

"No, that's okay," she said, feeling like an idiot. She drew the schedule out of her pocket, checking it for the second time. "You're Dr. Keller, right? And this is English 101?"

"That's right."

"Did anybody leave really early today? A blonde girl, with a purple coat?"

"No, I don't believe so. I always make it a point to notice when someone leaves early, so that I can draw attention to it and embarrass them."

"Oh," Santana said, not sure how to respond to this. "Okay. Thanks."

The woman continued on toward her office, and Santana remained standing in the middle of the hallway, which was practically deserted now this late in the day. She was completely thrown for a loop. What was going on? Where the hell was Brittany?

Taking her phone out, she quickly scrolled to her name and called her, then waited while it rang. But she didn't answer. After three rings, it went to voicemail. "Hey," she said, trying not to sound alarmed. "It's me. Call me as soon as you get this, okay?"

She lowered the phone, already beginning to feel the slightest bit scared. Because Brittany _always _answered her phone. Always. In fact, her inability to ignore it was a tendency that had annoyed Santana more than once in the past. She'd seen her answer it in the middle of a shower. She'd seen her answer it in the middle of _sex_, even. If she wasn't answering it now, then...

_Don't_, she told herself. _This is just some weird mix-up. There's nothing to freak out about_.

Since there didn't seem to be any point in hanging around the building, she went back outside and wandered around campus for a while, keeping a sharp eye out. At one point she felt a pang of relief when she saw a blonde girl in a purple coat up ahead at the library entrance, but then an even sharper pang when she realized it wasn't Brittany.

She tried calling her again. Still nothing. She texted her instead. "_Where are u? Pls call me_."

After about twenty more minutes of this fruitless searching and calling, she decided to head back home. There didn't seem to be anything more she could do here. Her big plans for the evening were virtually forgotten. All she cared about was finding Brittany and making sure she was okay. Nothing else mattered.

On the train back to Brooklyn, she made a massive effort to clear her mind of all the horrifying images it kept wanting to throw at her. She stared at an advertisement for a real estate company, featuring the picture-perfect all-American family of mom and dad, two kids and a dog. The little girl was blonde and had long braids. She stood with her family in a gloriously green front yard, all of them beaming at each other around the "Sold" sign planted in the grass. Santana locked her eyes on the kid as if by focusing on such a benign, wholesome image, she could keep the darker elements of reality at bay. She exited the car without noticing that she'd left the rose behind on the bench. The stem was broken and limp from where she'd been clutching it.

She hurried down the street toward their building. There were quite a few people out in the mild evening, and in her expensive, polished outfit she drew a few whistles and catcalls. She'd gotten used to this kind of thing and wasn't generally bothered by it, but today, in her current state of mind, it sounded somehow threatening.

Reaching their building, she tugged open the front door and went in.

"Aunt Olive, look here!" Pete called out to her. "A man in the classifieds wants to buy 'vintage joysticks.' Do you suppose that's a euphemism for penis?"

"Not now, Pete," she said, moving hastily toward the stairs. But then she backtracked enough to ask him, "Have you seen Brittany, by any chance?"

He gave her a blank look.

"_Ruby_," she corrected herself. "Have you seen Ruby?"

"Ah, Ruby," he said, contemplative. "That girl owes me money."

"Yeah, I know she owes you money!" Santana snapped. "But have you seen her?"

Startled into momentary lucidity, he thought for a second, then said, "No, not for a few hours."

"Thanks." She started back toward the stairs.

"I hope you're not stepping out on Greta with her," he chided, causing Santana to cast a slightly guilty look back in his direction. She continued on up as his voice echoed after her. "Ruby always did have a thing for the ladies. I think that's why she wanted to open a beauty salon... she liked touching women's hair!"

_It doesn't necessarily mean anything_, she thought, forcing herself not to take the stairs two at a time. Just because Pete hadn't seen her, it didn't mean she wasn't here. He took about seven naps per day. He couldn't keep tabs on everybody's comings and goings, no matter how much he tried to.

With hands that were shaking just a bit, she unlocked the door to the apartment. _She'll be in the living room. She'll be sitting on the couch, wondering where I am, and we'll laugh at this whole ridiculous mess._

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door, then went forward a few steps past the tiny entry to the living room doorway.

The only person in the room was Rachel. She was sitting on a yoga mat, barefoot and wearing some kind of preposterous skin-tight black leotard that looked like it came from 1960. Santana stood there, trying not to convey her disappointment. Even though she already knew the answer to the question, she asked anyway. "Is Brittany here?"

Rachel gave her a puzzled look. "No. I thought you were meeting her."

Swallowing hard against rising fear, she muttered something about there being a mix-up. Her mouth was suddenly dry, with a strange copper taste. It was the same taste of panic that had come upon her while sitting in her car after fleeing Coach Sue's office that day, as she'd gripped the steering wheel and stared at the parking lot and realized there was nowhere left to hide.

Trying to appear calm, she went over to the front window and scanned the street, hoping in vain that maybe Brittany was just coming in.

Nothing. And now it was starting to get dark.

Not knowing what else to do, she decided to call her one more time. She did it the old-fashioned way, actually dialing each number, as though this thoroughness would somehow make a difference, maybe earn her some karma points. She raised the phone to her ear, practically holding her breath, and even though she knew it was nonsensical and superstitious, she crossed her fingers. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then it went to voicemail again.

She pulled it away from her ear, feeling like throwing the damn thing across the room. Now her palms were sweaty, and she could feel terror-induced prickles under her arms. _What do I do? _she wondered, the voice in her head distraught. _I don't know what else to do._

Behind her on the yoga mat, Rachel was in the middle of some kind of loud, distracting breathing exercise. It sounded like she was practicing for giving birth. Santana spun around, needing some kind of outlet for her emotions.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

"It's one of my new hobbies," Rachel explained. "Tantric yoga. Only without the sex part. Although... I've read that it's not unheard of for spontaneous orgasms to occur, due to the convergence of cosmic energy." Off of Santana's bewildered look, she held up her hand and added quickly, "Oh, don't worry, I don't feel any approaching in the _immediate _future."

Before she could respond to this absurdity, Kurt came into the room from the kitchen. He was wearing a frilly apron with sprigs of purple flowers on it. _What the fuck is my life? _Santana thought, looking at him.

"I just wanted to announce that the pheasant will be ready in about an hour." Then, noticing Santana, "Oh, you're home. Don't judge me, all right? Lavender is a very masculine herb. They make cologne out of it."

"Ugh, Kurt... pheasant, really?" Rachel said. "You know, when I encouraged you to explore the culinary arts, I didn't think you would do it by making me feel nauseous in my own home. That smell is _obscene_."

"Rachel, for your information, pheasants are not the nicest birds. Did you know they're polygamists? It's true. The males keep harems."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm just saying that if you weren't such a bleeding heart, you would realize..."

She interrupted him. "Can you please not talk about bleeding?"

Santana couldn't take another second of their bullshit. Without warning, she erupted. "Hey, excuse me! Blanche and Rose? You know what, I hate to interrupt this whole orgy of self-involvement you've got goin' on up in here, or take any time away from your cracked-out, epic fail of a Hobby Day, but has it occurred to either of you two jerk-offs that _Brittany is missing_? Am I the only one who cares about this?"

They both stared at her in surprise. "What do you mean, missing?" Rachel asked.

"I mean, _missing_! As in, gone! As in, the love of my life is out there in one of the biggest cities in the world, and I don't know where the hell she is or why she won't answer her phone or what could have happened..." Her voice threatened to break on the last word, and she rallied the necessary swagger to continue. "So here's an idea, why don't we turn down the volume on the crazy machine and try to focus on _her _for a little while! How does that sound? Because for reals? If I have to suffer through one more minute of your lame ass cancelled-sitcom of a life right now, I am going to lose my shit. Oh, and also?" she went on scathingly. "While I'm making requests... Rachel, if we could go the next fifty years without you ever saying the word _orgasm _again, that would be just fanfuckingtastic, okay?"

"Santana, I'm sure she's not _missing_," Kurt said, managing to ignore the rest of the diatribe. "You're just overreacting."

"Oh, really? Then explain to me why she wasn't at class. Why won't she answer her phone?"

"She's probably on her way here," Rachel said. "You know what cell service is like on the subway."

Santana shook her head, refusing to be placated. In fact, the calmer they sounded, the more frantic she felt. "No. Something's happened. I just know it." She paced back and forth, wringing her hands, which, strangely, were starting to go numb. In a shaky, agitated voice, she said, "I can't feel my hands. Why can't I feel my hands? I think I'm having a heart attack."

"You're not having a heart attack," Rachel said, pulling her over toward the couch. "You're having a panic attack. Sit down."

She let herself be dragged down onto the sofa, but it didn't make her feel any more calm.

"Santana, you're _shaking_," Rachel told her in a sympathetic voice. "Try to take deep breaths."

She ignored this. "I don't know what else to do," she said helplessly. "I've called her over and over, I left her a message, I texted her... I keep feeling like I'm forgetting something. What am I forgetting? What should I do?"

"Right now, you just need to focus on calming down," Kurt said.

Santana went on, sounding more desperate. "I mean, what if something happened when she was on her way to class? That was _hours _ago. She could be out there somewhere..." But her voice caught in her throat and she couldn't finish the sentence.

"I'm sure nothing happened," Rachel consoled her in a loud voice. Then, in a whisper, she said to Kurt, "Should we start calling the morgues?"

"Rachel!" he hissed.

"_God_," Santana wailed, putting her head into her hands.

Kurt sank down onto the coffee table in front of her. "Don't listen to her," he said. "Everything is fine. This is probably just a big misunderstanding."

"No, he's right," Rachel agreed, patting her back. "I'm sorry... I tend to feed off of other people's panic. It's because I'm an _actress_."

Kurt grasped her hands, forcing her to raise her head. "Santana, look at me. _Look at me_."

Reluctantly, she complied.

"What's the one thing that bothers Brittany, more than almost anything else in the world?" He waited a few seconds for her to answer, then when she didn't seem able to, he continued. "It's when people underestimate her. Right?"

She sniffled, but then nodded.

"So what are you doing right now? What will she think when she sees that you couldn't even let her go off the grid for a few hours without having a meltdown?"

Making an effort to let his words soothe her, Santana took a deep breath. "You're right," she muttered. And he was right, she knew. She was being silly. Brittany wasn't helpless... she wasn't a child. There was nothing she hated more than being thought of as one.

Santana used her sleeve to wipe away the tears that had fallen in spite of her efforts. Then she couldn't help adding, "But it would be so much easier to take you seriously if you weren't wearing that apron."

He gave her a little smile as he squeezed her hands, the insult at least proving that she was feeling better.

She drew in another deep, fortifying breath, and stood up, calmer now. "Okay. But I think I'm gonna go back outside, and walk around and look for her."

"Do you really think that's wise?" Kurt asked, standing with her. "You don't know where to start. It would be like looking for a needle in... well, in New York City."

"I can't just sit here and not do anything," she said. "I'll go crazy."

"Do you want us to come with you?" Rachel offered.

She thought about it, and though her first instinct was to say yes, it probably wasn't the smartest idea. "Someone should stay here, just in case she..."

Before she could complete this sentence, they all looked up and toward the entryway at the sound of the front door opening.

Santana held her breath for a few seconds, then closed her eyes and let it out in a profound wave of relief when Brittany stepped into the living room doorway. Knowing she should probably check the impulse, but unable to, she went forward and threw her arms around her.

Though Brittany raised her arms to hug her back, she didn't seem to have the slightest idea why she was getting this extreme welcome. Santana forced herself to step back, examining her more closely just to make sure her eyes hadn't deceived her, that she was really in one piece and not at all traumatized by anything that might have happened.

Far from being upset, Brittany actually seemed only mildly puzzled at all the fuss. Her gaze touched on Santana's mascara-streaked face, on Kurt's frilly apron, on Rachel's bare feet and yoga mat, and she appeared to be trying and failing to fit these bizarre puzzle pieces into some kind of semblance of meaning. "What's going on?" she asked slowly.

"Where the hell have you been?" Santana asked, not with anger, but quietly, with emotion.

"What do you mean? You know I had a class."

"Oh dear," Kurt said under his breath, sensing the oncoming scene. He looked like he wished he was a hundred miles away.

Santana was indignant. "Britt, I _went _to your class. I waited for you there... I had this whole big evening planned. It was supposed to be a surprise."

Realization dawned on Brittany, and she closed her eyes for a second, then stared guiltily down at the floor, her entire posture conveying a clear sense of _Oh, shit_. She didn't seem to know how to answer. After a pause, she looked back up. "Guys, can we have a minute alone?"

"Of course," Kurt said, almost too fast. "We... were just getting ready to go for a walk."

"What?" Rachel stared at him. "No we weren't."

But he took her by the shoulders and guided her, not gently, toward the front door. Before he left, he turned back as if just thinking of it and said, "Santana, in exactly five minutes, I need you to baste my pheasant."

And even though she was still upset and bewildered and her heart wasn't in it, she couldn't repress a sullenly murmured, "_Wanky_." It was like a reflex.

"Kurt!" Rachel protested as she was tugged toward the door. "I don't even have any shoes on!" But he pushed her through anyway, closing it firmly behind him.

For a minute the two of them stood there facing each other, not speaking. Then Brittany moved away, over toward the center of the room, as if she needed a bit of space.

"What's going on?" Santana asked her. "Did you... did you drop your classes already?"

Brittany drew in a deep breath and then let it out, putting her hands on the back of the couch and staring down at them. "No, I didn't drop them. I just never signed up to begin with. I'm not taking any classes."

"_What_?" She couldn't have been more shocked if Brittany had told her she was legally changing her name to Ruby and opening a beauty salon. "What are you talking about? You gave me your entire schedule!"

But of course, now that she thought about it... she could see that maybe there had been little hints. The fact that she hadn't once seen her doing homework. The fact that on the days they were on campus at the same time, Brittany always came to _her _class instead of the other way around, always with the explanation that hers had let out early. The way she'd seemed uncomfortable every time Santana mentioned the test she had coming up. Should she have been able to put those pieces together and figure it out? No, she decided. _I'm not a freaking detective. _But more than that, she'd never had any reason to doubt Brittany's word before.

"How could you lie to me about this?" she demanded. "_Why_?"

Finally, Brittany met her eyes before she answered. "Because I didn't want you to be ashamed of me."

Santana felt like someone had punched her in the heart. For the second time today, she felt tears spring to her eyes. It was a while before she could find words. "I could never be ashamed of you," she said, just above a whisper. "_Never_! I can't believe you would even think that."

"Well, you kept telling me how proud you were. I didn't know how to say it without disappointing you." She shrugged, then added, "I wanted to do it. I went down there and I almost registered. But I just couldn't. You know what school is like for me."

"I would help you..." she began.

"I don't want your help, Santana!" Brittany interrupted, raising her voice. "I want to do something where I don't have to be _helped_! Can't you understand that?"

Taken aback by the extremely unusual anger in her tone, Santana was unable to reply for a few seconds. "Of course," she finally said, chastened. "Of course I understand."

She went on, as if she needed to justify herself. "I just can't stand the thought of another four years of studying things I don't care about... of taking a test and knowing I blew it... of being the only person in the classroom who doesn't understand. I don't want to do it anymore." She shook her head, looking anguished. "I _can't_."

"Then _don't_." Santana moved toward her. "Brittany, I don't care whether you take classes or not. I was proud of you because you're adjusting to the city, not because you were going to school. I just wanted you to have something to do during the day. I didn't want you to be bored."

Brittany considered this. "Well, the only time I'm bored is when I'm _at _school."

Santana looked down, accepting the truth of this, and knowing she probably should have realized it before. "I just wish you would have said something."

"It's just, you guys all have everything figured out," she said, sheepish. "It scares me, because I'm not like that. Rachel and Kurt know exactly what they want to do for the rest of their lives. They have every little detail mapped out. And there's an _actual _map, I saw it. I thought it was a board game."

"Yeah, I know the one you mean," Santana admitted. "Sometimes when we're drunk we do use it as a board game... every time you pass Go, you get a Tony Award."

"And _you_," she went on. "I mean... you're gonna be this amazing, bigshot lawyer, I just know it. In ten years you're gonna be in some courtroom, in front of some grumpy judge with his funny little judge-hammer... And you'll be up there kicking ass in your sexy librarian glasses, and your professional-lady stockings with garters, and your short yet tasteful silk skirt, with a slit up the side..." Brittany's words trailed off as she stared into space. After a few seconds, she said softly, "I forgot what I was talking about. You just look really hot in my head right now."

"Brittany," Santana protested, grabbing her hands. "That stuff about law school... I was just rambling. I don't have any idea if that's what I want to do. And Kurt and Rachel, I mean... yeah, they may know where they're headed career-wise, but you heard the dumbasses last night. They're so afraid they're gonna be boring people that they're cooking weird Mormon birds and doing sex yoga in the living room."

At this, Brittany glanced down at Rachel's yoga mat with an expression both intrigued and disturbed.

Santana continued. "None of us really have any idea what the hell we're doing. We most certainly do _not _have it all figured out. So please, get that idea out of your head. You don't have to know what you're doing right now, okay? There's plenty of time for that." She gripped her hands, trying to emphasize just how much she _meant _these words.

After a pause, Brittany reluctantly agreed. "Okay." Then she added, "I'm gonna get a job, though. To help with rent and everything."

"That's fine. But there's no rush. You should just take some time and figure out what you want to do."

She thought about this for a second. "What if I can't figure it out?"

"That's fine, too," Santana said, looking up at her, refusing to waver even the slightest bit. "Because I'm proud of you no matter what."

"What if I decide I want to work at a hot dog stand for the rest of my life?" There was just the tiniest spark of mirth in Brittany's eyes.

"Then I'd still be proud of you," she insisted, smiling a little.

"What if I wanted to be a garbage lady? Or a kids' birthday clown?"

"Then you'd be amazing at it." Gazing up at her with coy amusement, she pressed closer and said, "But you'd be, like, a _sexy _one, right?"

Wrinkling her brow, Brittany considered this. "I don't think sexy birthday clowns are legal."

Laughing a little, Santana looked down and then sighed in a mixture of relief and weariness. She could feel the beginning of a headache coming on, but she didn't much care. All that mattered was that everything had turned out fine. "So, I have to ask," she said, only just now thinking of it. "Where have you been going all this time? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"Sometimes I go to the movies," Brittany admitted. "That's where I was today. I guess I forgot to turn it back on. But sometimes I just walk around and film stuff. It's like... if you film something the right way? You can make people see it the way you see it. It's so much better than trying to describe it in words."

Santana gazed at her with admiration, wondering how it was possible that Brittany could have even thought she'd be ashamed of her. "That makes sense. And I wasn't exaggerating when I said you're really good at it," she said softly. Then, raising her eyebrows and forcing herself to sound just a bit tougher, she added, "But, um, listen. If you _ever _do anything like this again, I will seriously go all Lima Heights on you. I am not even joking, Britt. Do you have any idea how scared I was?"

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I never meant for anything like this to happen. I was gonna tell you." Brittany pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her. Against her ear, she whispered, "I love you so much."

Santana shut her eyes, willing herself not to cry again. She squeezed her tightly, pressing her face into her shoulder, breathing in her scent. "I love you too."

They stood there for a few minutes, holding each other, not speaking.

Then, as if on cue, a forlorn voice cried out from the other side of the front door, "Guys? Can we come in now?" Then, after a pause, "I can't feel my feet!"

With reluctance, the two of them pulled away from each other. Brittany gave her a questioning look, which Santana answered with a wry nod. She moved toward the entryway, then, seeming to steel herself, she opened the door.

"Oh, God..." Rachel wailed, a revolted look on her face as she came in and glanced at the bottom of her foot. "I think I stepped on a condom!" She scurried off toward the bathroom.

Kurt barely glanced at Brittany as he entered. He stopped in the living room doorway, staring at Santana. "Did you baste?"

Evasively, she looked to the side, and then said, "Yes."

He rolled his eyes in disgust. "You know how I know it's a lie, Santana? Because you actually sounded _pleasant _saying it." He stalked off to tend to his neglected pheasant.

Thankful that they were both out of the room, Santana sank down into the stuffed chair, then looked at Brittany and patted it invitingly. She came over and settled in beside her. There was just barely space for the two of them, but at the moment they didn't mind being pressed up against each other. It was obvious to Santana that her big romantic night out would have to wait. By the time she re-did her makeup, they'd never make it to the restaurant on time. But she didn't mind. If she did nothing but sit here for the rest of the evening, she wouldn't regret it at all.

"So, just out of curiosity..." she said, leaning her head on Brittany's shoulder. "What was I doing, when I looked so hot in your head earlier?"

Immediately remembering what she referred to, Brittany grinned a little. "Oh, you were doing some really dirty stuff. The judge did _not _approve."

"No?" Santana giggled, pressing her lips tenderly to the side of Brittany's neck.

"I think the jury did, though," she added. "One lady for sure. Because she was getting pretty inappropriate."

She laughed again, and Brittany brought her arms up and put them around her. They leaned against each other without moving. Outside the front window the sky was cobalt blue, and the room was getting darker by the minute. Pretty soon they would have to get up and turn some lights on.

But not yet.


	7. Chapter 7

I do believe this is again the longest one yet. It's like I'm in competition with myself to see how crazy I can be.

If I keep doing the mega-chapters, there will probably be about 3 more. Ten seems like a nice round number to end it on. Already, though, I'm not ruling out the idea of some kind of sequel or companion piece. This particular story has to end soon, because everything Brittana-wise builds toward the last scene, and I can't drag it out forever. But I've gotten so attached to the characters and this scenario/setting that I might still want to return to it in some form. I love the way writing it out makes it so real in my head, like the spin-off I hoped to see.

I've been so overwhelmed by the reviews... I can't thank you enough for that. Doing this has taken up a _lot_ more time than I expected, but getting feedback and knowing that people are enjoying it makes it so worth it. Thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"A teacher!" Rachel shouted, watching Brittany's hand as she sketched on the pad of paper. "A kindergarten teacher!"

Without looking away from the drawing, Brittany shook her head.

"Um, Snow White! The Pied Piper! The old woman who lived in the shoe?"

"Just a few seconds left," Kurt warned them.

Brittany continued drawing, casting Rachel an impatient look.

"Jesus!" Rachel called out, smacking the coffee table with premature triumph. "It's got to be Jesus." But again Brittany shook her head.

"Time's up," Santana declared with a satisfied smirk, reaching out to grab the score sheet. "No points this round."

Rachel kicked the leg of the table in frustration. Then she reached out and took the prompt card from where Brittany had dropped it. She turned it over, reading out loud, "Jim Morrison." Then she looked at the drawing again, incredulous. "Brittany, _how _is that Jim Morrison? What are all those little creatures around him?"

"Those are his muppets," Brittany told her, like it should be obvious.

"That's Jim _Henson_!" she exclaimed. Attempting to control her temper, she said in a striving-for-reasonable voice, "I thought you said you were good at this game."

"I am good at it," she insisted, shrugging. "I just keep getting stupid categories. It's like, why are there so many Jims? It's not even a cool name."

"Aw, sweetie," Santana said, kissing her shoulder in commiseration. "Even if it _was _Jim Henson, she still would have blown it." But then her competitive streak kicked in. "Okay, me and Kurt's turn."

Kurt passed her the stack of prompt cards, and she drew one from the top, then read it. With a poker face, she took the pad of paper and ripped off the top sheet, waiting until Rachel turned the tiny plastic minute-glass over before she began drawing on the clean one underneath. She made one line. Two lines. Part of a third line.

"A Streetcar Named Desire," Kurt said, sounding almost bored.

She smiled and tilted her head back in triumph, then gave him a high five.

"_What_?" Rachel exploded, standing up. "That's impossible! You two are cheating somehow, I know it... You're communicating by secret gaydar or something!"

"Is that not allowed?" Brittany asked, looking guilty. "Because I was trying to send you some earlier, but you did _not _pick up on it."

Kurt had a smug look on his face. He said, "You know, Santana, I do believe the more we drink, the better we are at this game."

"It's weird, right?" she agreed.

With a heavy sigh, Rachel grabbed the pad of paper away from Santana and sat back down. "All right, Brittany, focus," she said. "This is our chance to come back from behind." Checking the card she drew from the pile, she added, "Oh good, this is an easy one, you can do this." She waited for the start time, then hurriedly began drawing what looked like an elongated wedge or triangle.

"Unicorn horn," Brittany threw out.

Rachel shook her head, hard.

"Unicorn sword," she tried again. "Unicorn penis."

"There's no unicorn!" Rachel burst out.

"No talking," Kurt and Santana said at the same time.

Rachel bent back over her drawing, intense and determined. She added a vague roundish ball-shape to the top of the wedge, then drew tear-shaped drops in the air below it. As time ran out, she kept stabbing at these drops with the pen, as if she could transmit the answer by sheer force. Brittany watched her, silent and skeptical as Rachel grew even more frantic. Santana pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from cracking up.

"Time's up," Kurt announced.

"It's an ice cream cone! Brittany, how could you not get that? I made it so obvious... it's even _melting_."

"That's supposed to be ice cream?" she said calmly, examining the drawing. "Gross. I thought it was semen."

Flinging the pad of paper aside, Rachel crossed her arms. "I don't want to play anymore."

"God, you are such a sore loser," Santana told her, but without much interest. She was sunk deep into the couch cushions, holding her fifth glass of wine. Her head felt fuzzy, in the best way possible.

"That's okay," Brittany said quickly. "I have a different game we can play." As she said this she pulled a notepad out of the back pocket of her jeans and flipped it open. "It's called _How Well Do You Really Know Santana Lopez?_"

Kurt looked contemplative. "Ah, now would that be the Parker Brothers, or the Milton Bradley edition?"

Ignoring him, Brittany continued. "Rachel, you can go first."

Excited to be chosen first for anything, Rachel leaned forward intently. "Okay."

"Question number one," Brittany read. "What is Santana's favorite color?"

Rachel only thought about this for a few seconds. "Black."

At the ease with which she gave this answer, Brittany immediately looked annoyed. "Are you sure you don't want to go with red?" she pressed. "Or maybe purple?"

"No, it's black," Rachel insisted.

Grudgingly, Brittany made a notation on her pad. "One point."

"_Yes_," Rachel said under her breath.

"Britt, what is this?" Santana asked, confused. "What are you doing?"

"It's just a fun game I made up," she said, and then with barely a pause she forged ahead. "Question number two. How old was Santana when she got her first kiss? And who was it with?"

"Um... I don't know." Rachel cast her eyes about the room, as if maybe the answer would be lurking somewhere in the furnishings. "Twelve, maybe? With you?"

"Wrong," Brittany told her, satisfied. "She was six. And it was with her cousin Ricky."

"Ricky the drug dealer?" Kurt asked, giving Santana an ironic lift of his eyebrows.

"He wasn't a drug dealer _then_," she said in a defensive tone. "He was eight." She took another sip from her wineglass, but then realized it was empty. Wordlessly, she held it out for Kurt to refill, which he did, adding more to his own glass while he was at it.

"Question number three," Brittany continued. "If Santana was stranded on a desert island, what's the one item she would absolutely have to have with her?"

Rachel seemed daunted by the increasing complexity of the questions. "I guess it would probably be... her iPod?"

"Wrong again," Brittany told her. "It's a trick question. Santana would never be stranded on a desert island, because... I would rescue her, in my boat."

"Damn it," Rachel muttered to herself, as if this answer should have been obvious.

Santana looked at Kurt with a puzzled expression, wondering whether it was just the alcohol that made it seem like this game was absurd, or whether it really was absurd. In any case, she didn't currently have the motivation to interrupt, so she kept drinking and waited to see where things went.

"Question number four. What kind of underwear does Santana prefer?"

"Oh, I know this one!" Rachel said, excited. "Victoria's Secret v-strings... followed by hipsters in very close second place. And also a few pairs of granny panties that she refuses to get rid of."

Brittany looked up from her notepad in irritated disbelief. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because the first few weeks we lived here, she didn't know how to do laundry," Rachel explained in an innocent voice. "She paid me to do it for her."

Brittany looked over at Santana, who seemed uncomfortable. "I know how to do it _now_," she said, sheepish.

With a disapproving look, Brittany returned to her notepad. "Okay, this one is worth double the points. Question number five. What is Santana's favorite sexual position?"

"_Brittany_!" Santana said, indignant.

"I... I don't know," Rachel protested. "How would I know? That isn't a fair question. This game is rigged."

"Five seconds," Brittany said, looking at her watch.

Determined not to give up without at least trying for the points, Rachel briefly considered and then shouted, "Top! It's got to be the top."

Pleased with this answer, Brittany gave her a sly, victorious smile. "You would think so, wouldn't you? But you would be wrong."

Finally, Santana leaned forward and snatched the notepad out of her hands. "Okay, I think that's enough of this game," she said, giving Brittany a pointed look that said quite clearly _Have you lost your mind?_

Brittany relented, but Rachel wasn't so easy to convince. "Wait, did I win?"

"No," Brittany told her. "But you did have almost enough points to qualify for the lightning round. Too bad, you could have made a comeback."

"Santana, I want to do the lightning round!"

"Forget it," she said firmly. "I don't even want to know how inappropriate _those _questions would be."

"This isn't fair, you never want to play any games that I'm good at," Rachel said in a martyred tone.

"You're _not _good at it," Santana told her. "And it's not a real game." Then, she seemed to consider for a minute, adding, "But okay, if you really want to keep going, Polly Pocket, then let's make it interesting. If you lose, we trade bedrooms."

"What?" Rachel said, shocked.

"You heard me. Because Britts and I were talking about it earlier today, and it occurs to us that since she's paying rent now, and we're both sharing a room, it only makes sense for us to have the biggest one. Right?"

Rachel looked alarmed. "Look, I realize things are crowded around here, but you can't have my room. I _need _all that space."

"For what?" Santana demanded.

"For... my talent."

Brittany was watching this back-and-forth with a vaguely satisfied look on her face, as if she were pleased with what she'd set in motion.

"You know what Rachel, I am so sick of your bullshit," Santana said now, standing up. But all the wine she'd drunk suddenly caught up with her, and she wobbled a bit. Brittany immediately stood up next to her and Santana grabbed her arm to stabilize herself, trying to do it in as dignified a manner as possible. She continued. "It's a holy freaking miracle that anyone can stand to live in the same building with you, let alone the same apartment. You..." she fished around for a clever remark, but her head was too buzzy. "You _suck_," she settled on, pointing her finger for emphasis.

Rachel rolled her eyes at the failed eloquence of this insult.

"Come on, Brittany," Santana said. "Let's go hang out in our room. Because right now, I'd rather be crammed in that dollhouse closet than spend one more minute up in here with these losers."

"Excuse me, what did _I _do?" Kurt asked in an offended voice.

Santana started toward the hallway, then turned back and aggressively grabbed from the coffee table the one wine bottle that was still half full, taking it with her. Brittany led her out of the room with her hand on the small of her back, casting a gloating look over her shoulder at Kurt and Rachel.

Rachel stood and watched them go, hands on her hips, shaking her head a little at the ridiculous way the evening had ended. "Fine... that's just fine! Go and sulk. You know, we're all making sacrifices here!" she called after them. "That's the price of cultivating stardom!"

When they were out of the room, she waited a few seconds and then turned to Kurt, whispering in a confidential way, "I really figured she would be a top, didn't you?"

His only response to this was to close his eyes and give a weary sigh as if he wished he was somewhere else, and then to empty his wineglass.

* * *

><p>"<em>Fever, till you sizzle<em>...

_But _w_hat a lovely way to burn_

_What a lovely way to burn..."_

The minimalist music faded away as Santana finished up the last few lines of Peggy Lee's _Fever_. She smiled at the patrons as they cheered and then dipped her head slightly to acknowledge them. For some reason, this number was always a crowd pleaser. She managed to tweak it and make it just a bit sexier every time she performed it. Of course, it didn't hurt that she was wearing red. Red was her signature Friday night color.

Suddenly she became aware of something different about the restaurant, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and looking up over the tables, she realized that Brittany had just come in. It was downright bizarre how she could always tell, like there was actually some kind of magnetic pull between them that became stronger the closer they got to each other.

Stepping down from the stage, she gestured for her to join her. Brittany approached, smiling proudly. "I just caught the end," she said, giving her a quick hello peck. "I wanted to get here earlier."

"That's okay, you've heard 'em all before," she said. "I've got to get some new material." She looked around, noticing that Brittany was alone. "Where's Donnie and Marie?"

"They had some theater thing. I don't know, I wasn't really listening. We don't have to go though. They're not in it, they're just watching." Brittany bit her lip a little, then added, "_Annnd _it's a good thing, because... you and I have a stop to make on the way home."

"Oh really?" Santana asked, raising her eyebrows. "And where would that be?"

"I can't tell you yet, it's a secret," she said, looking pleased with herself. Reaching toward her, she gently adjusted a few strands of hair that were out of place near Santana's headband. "You'll just have to wait and see."

"Okay, fine," she said, amused. She looked behind her, where the guitar player still sat, having his cigarette break right on stage. He'd been asked repeatedly by Suresh not to do this, but clearly he didn't care. It was one of the things Santana liked about him. All of a sudden she had an idea, and she turned back and asked Brittany, "Hey, while you're here, you want to do a song with me?"

She looked at the stage, then at the nearly full audience at the tables. "I don't know," she said uncertainly.

"Come on, don't tell me a badass performer like you is getting stage fright," Santana said. In a coaxing tone, she added, "You better take your chance while Rachel's not here."

"Okay," Brittany finally agreed.

Santana led her up to the stage and introduced her to Stu, the guitarist. He gave her a silent salute. Stu was a man of few words, another thing Santana liked about him.

"You pick something," she told her. She left her for a few seconds while she went to grab another microphone.

After a moment of consideration, Brittany leaned forward and whispered something to Stu. He looked vaguely dubious, but he nodded, agreeing.

Santana set up the second mike, wondering how she was going to introduce Brittany this time, and whether she should keep up the pretense that they were simply best friends. She had a brief moment of dread, but then she was spared the dilemma when the music started. Stu wasn't one for preliminaries, which she was thankful for tonight.

Brittany waited for her cue and then began singing.

_Children behave... that's what they say when we're together_

Santana couldn't help laughing in delighted recognition when she realized what the song was. She watched Brittany, proud of her.

_And watch how you play... _

_They don't understand, and so we're_

_Running just as fast as we can_

_Holding on to one another's hand_

_Tryin' to get away into the night_

_And then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say_

Now she joined in on the chorus, harmonizing with her.

_I think we're alone now_

_Doesn't seem to be anyone around_

_I think we're alone now_

_The beating of our hearts is the only sound_

They continued to the end of the song, which to Santana's surprise sounded unexpectedly good in the stripped-down, acoustic version. It was something she never would have thought of, herself. She made a mental note to get Brittany to help her with her set lists in the future. It would be nice to have someone with an open mind, someone willing to try any idea no matter how strange.

At the end, she threw all the applause to Brittany, then pulled her away from the stage, grinning at her. "You were _so good_."

"You didn't think it was too karaoke?"

"No, it was perfect. And besides, Tiffany is totally underrated."

Brittany smiled. "I've always thought so."

After Santana went to the back to grab her coat and pick up her check, they left. On the sidewalk, she took deep breaths of the refreshing cold air. It always felt great to get outside after performing, and it was even better when she had someone with her. They started heading toward the subway entrance, but then without warning, Brittany threw out her arm and got them a taxi.

Santana looked at her, admiring. "Look at you, hailing cabs like a boss. You're better at that than I am."

"I've been practicing," she admitted. "It's all in the shoulder. But, they do get kind of mad when you make 'em pull over and you don't really want a ride."

Inside the taxi, Brittany gave the driver an address on west 44th Street. Santana narrowed her eyes, curious. "Is that Hell's Kitchen?"

"Mm-hm," Brittany said, but refused to elaborate further. She was being quite mysterious, which Santana found adorable. She tried to resist getting too cuddly with her in the backseat. Already, they'd found out the hard way that when it came to some immigrant cab drivers, homophobia was alive and well. You had to pick your moments. It wasn't always worth it.

The building they eventually stopped at was about ten stories tall, and seemed to be a nondescript apartment complex in a mixed neighborhood of housing, restaurants, and businesses. Santana insisted on paying the driver over Brittany's protest ("I wants to get my chivalry on," she explained to her), and they went inside.

In the lobby, Brittany led her straight to the elevator as if she knew the place well, punching the button for the ninth floor. She was doing that thing where she bounced on her toes slightly, trying to contain her excitement. Santana watched her on the way up, wondering what in the world was going on.

"It's a nice building, right?" Brittany asked her.

"Definitely," she agreed, and not just because it was the expected answer, but because it was true.

When the elevator dinged open, Brittany tucked Santana's arm into hers and led her down the hall. She stopped at the last door and knocked, and immediately from inside came a cacophony of barking. At that noise, Santana thought she began to see, at least, how Brittany had initially discovered this building. It must be on one of her routes. Because to everyone's surprise, she'd landed a job just a few days after declaring her intention to do so. For the past week, she'd been gainfully employed as a professional dog walker. She'd been a bit self-conscious when she first told Santana about it, insisting it was temporary, though Santana had assured her there was no reason to be embarrassed. It was sort of perfect, actually. The service had assigned her designated neighborhoods all over the city, which had helped her familiarize herself with New York in record time. Plus, the hours were flexible and the pay was good. Not to mention, she got to be around animals all day, which she loved.

The door was opened and a beagle exploded out, barreling into their legs. "Hi Grover!" Brittany exclaimed, bending down to smoosh his face. "This is Santana," she said, as the dog twisted and contorted itself in spasms of joy. "Santana, this is Grover."

"Hi," she said, but without making any motion to touch the thing. Then she felt like an idiot, because she realized there was a man standing in the doorway watching them. _But how do you reply when you're introduced to a dog?_

"Oh, hey," Brittany said, straightening up and noticing the guy, who looked like he could have just stepped out of a film about Woodstock. She seemed a bit puzzled. "Are Eric and Bonnie here?"

"They are," the man said, bobbing his head in a genial way. Suddenly a woman came up behind him and draped herself around his shoulders, burrowing into his long, tangled hair with a strange humming sound. "Step right in," he added.

Brittany went in first, making sure to bring the dog, and Santana followed her. Even though the hallway hadn't been bright, she stopped and waited for her eyes to adjust to the unusual dimness of the room. The only light seemed to come from a lava lamp, and in one corner, a small blacklight. There was an overpowering odor of incense, and beneath it, the green, pungent scent of marijuana. On the ceiling were glowing star decals, and there was the vague sense that the walls themselves were somehow tie-dyed, even though it was hard to make out any detail. Santana had the impression that she'd stepped through a portal into the sixties... or at least someone's clichéd idea of the sixties.

"So," the guy said in a mellow way, closing the door. "You girls swing?"

Brittany turned to him, answering politely. "Um, sometimes, when we're by a playground. But not as much as when we were kids."

Santana pressed her lips together and looked at the floor, willing herself not to laugh.

"Right on," he said, nodding again, pretending he understood. Now the woman took his arm and tugged him off into a corner.

"Brittany," she whispered to her. "I think he meant a different kind of swinging."

"Oh," she said, not concerned. "That's okay, I don't who know those people are, anyway. But come here and look at this."

She drew her over to the window, pulling back a curtain that appeared to be made of some kind of burlap, or maybe (probably) hemp. "Look at this view. Isn't this awesome?"

Santana stared down at 44th Street, nine stories below, and then out at the city rising up around them. "Yeah," she agreed. "It's amazing. But..." she looked back into the dim, smoky apartment, bemused. She started to ask _What the hell are we doing here?_, but settled instead on the more neutral, "What is this place? Who lives here, Britt?"

"Well..." she said, looking secretly excited again. "_We _do." She paused, then added, "If you want to, I mean."

Santana waited a second, thinking she'd heard wrong. "What?"

"This couple that lives here now, Eric and Bonnie? They're moving to South America for a year to live in this commune, and so they're gonna sublet the place. And they asked me if I knew anyone who might want it. So I said... that _we _might."

"Brittany," she said, still shocked. "I mean, it's a great location and everything... it's so close to school and work, but..." She looked around again, mentally measuring the space. "This is a studio. There's no way four people could fit in here."

"_Four_?" Brittany repeated, looking at her like she was crazy. "No, I meant _us_. You and me."

"Oh." Her eyes widened, and the shock of a few seconds ago was nothing compared to what she felt now.

"I started thinking about it the other night, when Rachel wouldn't trade rooms. It's just... you're always fighting with them. So I thought... I don't know, maybe it would be good if we had our own place." She paused, then added, "That song was kind of my hint, but you didn't pick up on it. That's okay, I was being pretty sneaky."

Santana's mind raced. She couldn't even begin to make sense of all the emotions that rushed at her at once - alarm, joy, bewilderment, pride, terror, regret, and plenty of others that no labels would even begin to fit. To cover up her confusion, she turned back to the window, pretending she wanted to see the view again. The question that swam up to the top of her consciousness, beating out all the others for her attention, was _What does this mean? _What did it mean that Brittany wanted them to live together, alone? What did it mean that she was willing to sign a lease for an entire year? Did she want them to be roommates, the way they'd always planned in high school? Or did she want them to move in together, in a very different, very grown-up sense? Santana wanted to ask her, flat-out, but she wouldn't let herself. The last time she'd asked a question like that, demanding specifics, the answer had nearly broken her heart. This time, she was determined to be more careful.

Next to her, she could feel Brittany growing impatient and then a bit dejected as she waited for her to say something. "It's okay if you don't want to. It was just an idea."

She continued to stare out the window, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was one of those crucial moments in life where one wrong move could change everything. She didn't want to look back later and realize she'd made the wrong decision. What if she never got another chance like this? And after all, what was there to be afraid of, really? This was Brittany. This was the person who knew her and loved her more than anyone else in the world, despite their time apart, despite their occasional inability to comprehend each other. What was she so scared of?

Finally, she turned back to her, taking a deep breath and letting it out, her eyes glowing with anticipation. "Let's do it."

Brittany stepped forward, hopeful. "Yeah? You sure?"

"I'm sure," she said, nodding. And if there was just the tiniest hint of fear in her expression, Brittany didn't seem to notice it. She leaned down for a kiss and pulled her closer, crushing Santana against her in her elation. Santana kissed her back, throwing her arms around her neck. She laughed against her lips and felt the breath squeezed out of her, her feet leaving the ground as Brittany lifted her up briefly against her own body.

"Okay, there's one more thing you have to see," she said, relinquishing her grip. She grabbed her hand and pulled her over to a section that was partitioned off from the living area. They stepped through a retro beaded curtain in the doorway, the strands clicking behind them. "Look how big the bed is!" Brittany whispered, squeezing her fingers.

This area was just as dark as the other one, but there was some illumination coming in from the bare window. Just below it was a queen-sized bed, covered in some kind of vintage paisley-patterned quilt. It was about three times as big as the twin bed in Santana's room in Sunset Park. She gave Brittany a sly grin, squeezing her fingers in return. Obviously they were both thinking the same thing.

A wedge of light suddenly pierced the room as a man emerged from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel.

"Brittany, greetings!" he said. "I was hoping you'd stop by. So, what do you think?"

"Hi, Eric." She glanced at Santana one more time, as if to be absolutely certain, then said, "I think... we're gonna take it."

"Righteous," he said. Now a woman clad in a tiny silk robe came out of the bathroom and draped herself over him, sucking on his earlobe. As if he didn't notice her, he continued. "As you can see, it's all furnished... everything stays behind. Won't need it where we're going. We'll only be taking spiritual baggage." Misinterpreting their current object of interest, he said in a regretful way, "Unfortunately, there's just the one bed."

"Actually, that... won't be a problem," Brittany told him.

He seemed puzzled at first, then his eyebrows lifted with realization. "Oh, you two together?"

Brittany looked at Santana again, seeming unsure whether or not she should answer the question, or what she should say.

After a slight pause, Santana smiled a little. "Yeah." She continued to watch Brittany's face, even though she was speaking to Eric, "We are." Brittany gave her a soft smile in return, grateful.

"Even better," he said, bringing his hands together in a weird prayer-like gesture and then bowing his head at them. "Much luck on your journey." Then he dropped the pious tone and said in the voice of a normal thirty-something guy, "Hey, let me go get Bonnie! She's gonna be thrilled." He pushed through the clicking beads, and the woman drifted after him like she was in some kind of trance.

Santana watched them go, then turned to Brittany, a strange expression on her face. "That wasn't Bonnie?" she asked in a low voice.

Brittany gave a quick shake of her head, adding no further comment.

She looked at the bed again, disturbed. "We are _so _disinfecting that mattress."

* * *

><p>The next day, Saturday afternoon, the two of them sat across from Rachel and Kurt in a booth at the corner diner near their building. Santana was anxious, and she was pissed at herself for feeling that way. She took a sip of her coffee, wishing it was decaf. But they were such regulars here that the waitresses always brought her a cup when she sat down, whether she ordered it or not. It occurred to her now that she wouldn't be coming here much longer, and as silly as it was, she felt a tiny pang of regret. Of course, they'd find someplace near their new apartment, but it would mean starting all over again as strangers.<p>

"Oh, Goldie Hawn!" Rachel said, pointing to a picture in the tabloid magazine that she and Kurt had spread out between them on the table. "I saw her the other day in Times Square."

"You did not," Kurt told her.

"Yes I did. Or maybe it was Gilda Radner."

"Gilda Radner?" he asked, incredulous. "She's been dead for twenty years."

"Well, then it probably wasn't her," she said, as if this proved her point.

Santana watched them, equal parts irritated and entertained. "Are you gonna finish that pasta, or not?" she asked.

Rachel glanced up and then pushed her plate across the table. "I don't understand how you can eat so much."

"It's called PMS," she said, picking up the fork. "One day _you'll_ be a woman, Rachel, and then you'll understand."

Shaking her head in tolerant disdain, she went back to her magazine.

The truth was, Santana felt the need to keep eating because it gave her something to do. Any minute now, according to their previously-agreed upon plan, Brittany would leave her alone here, and there would be nothing left to do but tell them. Why did it feel like such a big deal? _It's not a big deal_, she insisted to herself.

"Okay, I'm out," Brittany suddenly said, as Santana had known she would. She dragged the straw around the bottom of her glass and slurped up the last of her milkshake, then stood up, pulling her coat on. "Mr. Chen from the laundromat asked if I would come and do some filming to try to catch his ghost on tape. Personally, I think he's crazy, because... what kind of ghost would want to hang around a laundromat? If you're dead and you can go anywhere you want, you should hang out somewhere cool, like Chuck E. Cheese."

"Well... maybe this ghost has fond, romantic memories of the laundromat," Kurt said thoughtfully. "Maybe he used to meet his lover there or something."

The three girls all briefly paused in what they were doing and stared at him.

"It's just an idea," he added as he raised his iced tea, uncomfortable now.

Brittany leaned back into the booth for a quick kiss. "See you at home."

"Yeah." They exchanged significant glances, and Brittany seemed to be telling her _Good luck_. She headed out the door, and Santana watched as she passed their window and continued on down the sidewalk.

"Mary-Kate Olsen is losing weight again," Rachel said, still absorbed in the magazine. "One of these days she's just going to disappear. Oh, you know what I recently learned?" She leaned forward onto the table intently, gesturing with her hands. "They make this substance now, it's like Play-Doh, only you put it on your body in places where you need, shall we say, _enhancements_... particularly for those who are challenged in the posterior-area. They mold it in place, and then it dries and it looks just like real buttocks. All the celebrities are using it."

"That's insane," Kurt said, looking at her like she was speaking a foreign language. "Where do you hear these things?"

"It's true," she insisted. "It can also be used to smooth over problem nipples. Those are the ones that stick out too far."

Kurt shook his head at her a little, as if trying to clear the crazy from his vision, then he looked across the table. "All right, Santana, what's going on? I left that nipple remark wide open for you, and nothing. You're not getting sick, are you?" He reached over to feel her forehead.

"No, _jeez_," she said, making a face as she pushed his hand away. His fingers smelled like pickles. She decided, however, that she might as well use the opening. It was as good a time as any. After a pause, she added, "But okay, I do sort of have... some news. Something I need to tell you guys."

Rachel put the magazine down and brought her hand to her heart in the same motion. "Oh my God, is it cancer?"

With an incredulous stare, Santana demanded, "_That's_ where your mind immediately goes?"

"Sorry." She composed herself. "Go on."

She took a deep breath, trying to think how to begin. "All right, look, the thing is, Brittany and I found this..." She stopped, correcting this to, "Well, actually _Brittany _found this really amazing studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It's pretty close to the restaurant, and to school. And even though the people who live there look like rejects from a Laugh-In tribute, it's shockingly affordable for midtown. So..." She stared down at her plate, not meeting their eyes, twirling one strand of spaghetti around the fork over and over. Why was it so hard to say?

Then she stopped for a second and seemed to collect herself, calling on the stores of attitude she always kept in reserve. "You know what, screw this, I don't have anything to feel bad about." Looking up, she faced them directly. "We're moving out."

They continued to stare back at her, blankly, as if waiting for some kind of punch line. After a few seconds she couldn't help but look away again, feeling guilty despite telling herself not to.

After the awkward silence continued for another beat, Kurt finally said in wonder, "Well. You... weren't kidding when you said you had news."

"When?" Rachel asked in a small voice.

"Next weekend. I know it's sudden. I mean, I'll still pay rent for this month. And next month too, if you need it."

Closing her magazine, Rachel smoothed the cover down in melancholy way, apparently trying to choose her words with care. "It sounds like you've already made up your mind."

"Yeah, we have," Santana said firmly. She made sure to say _we _and not just _I_.

"Congratulations," Kurt said, still with an air of surprise, but with the obvious desire to say the appropriate thing. "This is... quite the major life step. After all, living with someone is practically like getting married."

The words caused her stomach to flip, and she shook her head. "Don't say that. Especially not to Brittany, please." Then, realizing how odd this might sound, she quickly changed the subject, adding, "And you know, you guys could crash there sometimes, if you're in the city late or something. We'll still _see _each other."

The two of them were quiet again for a few seconds, both seeming to wait for the other to continue the expected platitudes. Santana felt a wave of annoyance toward them for not making this easier for her. But it was pretty much what she'd expected. They weren't the types who could take anything lightly. Though she also knew, deep down, that she would have been even more pissed off if they had. At least this was better than indifference.

Now Rachel shrugged a little, saying quietly, "So much for things not changing." The words managed to sound both wistful and bitter at the same time.

_Damn her_. As it happened, Santana had also been thinking about the conversation they'd had in the kitchen on the night Brittany arrived, and she'd been hoping Rachel wouldn't bring it up. But of course, she would have to.

"Yeah, well, when I said that, I didn't know this was gonna happen," she said in a sharp voice. "She just sort of blindsided me with it." Then, hearing these words out loud, she hastened to add, "But, like, in a good way."

"You're right, I'm sorry," Rachel said, genuinely repentant. "I don't mean to sound negative. It's wonderful for you... of course it is." She stared down at the table for a second, then blinked rapidly. "Sorry, it's just... I think I got some pepper in my eye, before. And you know what, they must be cutting up onions in the back." She stood suddenly. "Also, allergies."

"_Rachel_." Bewildered, Santana watched as she swept out of the diner, the bell above the door dinging accusingly behind her.

She turned her bafflement on Kurt. "Why do I feel like cancer would have made her happier?"

"She'll be fine," he said in a mild voice. "You know she has the emotional recovery time of a hamster."

Santana gave a deep, weary sigh, leaning back against the upholstered seat. "What about you?" she asked after a minute, almost dreading the answer. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Yes." He gave her a tiny smile. "But, you're in love. So it's a forgivable offense."

She rolled her eyes, but gave him a small, grateful smile in return.

Now he placed a twenty on the table to cover their tab, then slid out of the booth and stood waiting for her. She pulled herself up, feeling strangely exhausted. Kurt draped an arm around her in a casual way, adding, "I am, however, insanely jealous. It turns out that casting a wide dating net is not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. I hate it when my dad is right."

Leaning against him a little as they headed toward the door, she told him, "Well, you're gonna find someone amazing soon. There's no doubt in my mind."

"That's sweet of you." He seemed to be waiting for something else.

She let him open the door, and despite her best efforts, she couldn't help herself. "And I mean, if all else fails, you could start trolling the prep schools. I hear there's a bumper crop of hot boys in uniforms this year."

He nodded a little, following her out. "_Annnnd _there it is."

* * *

><p>Sunday afternoon, and Brittany was leaning over the hand rail of the escalator as they ascended, peering in awe at the sheer spectacle of the department store spread out below them. Santana had one hand hooked protectively around her waist, which she felt a bit silly about, but she couldn't help it. Brittany was so mesmerized by the sight below that she didn't even seem to realize how high up they were.<p>

"This is so much cooler than the Macy's at the mall in Lima," she declared.

Santana laughed a little. "Yeah, well, that's because this is the real thing, not some cheap-ass knock-off. It's the biggest department store in the world." She spoke in a proprietary tone, even though this was actually only the second time she'd been here. The first had been an ill-fated mission to help Kurt find a birthday present for Finn, but which had ended instead with the two of them buying shoes for themselves.

To her relief, Brittany finally straightened up and moved away from the railing. "Everything looks amazing. But, Santana, can we really afford anything from here?"

"Today we can," she said confidently, stepping off the escalator and taking her by the hand. "Today we are shopping in _style_."

Though of course, despite her assurance, they both knew they wouldn't be able to buy much. Furnishing the apartment was going to be a work in progress. They'd already accepted that they would have to pace themselves, maybe get a few things each week. But the most important item, the one that couldn't wait and the one they'd decided to start with, was a complete bedding set. As the first joint purchase they would make for their new home, they'd agreed that it was both symbolic and practical. Finding the perfect one was the primary reason they were here today.

But despite their intention to head straight to Domestics, they found they kept getting sidetracked by other areas. They let themselves be spritzed with perfume samples until they began to get nauseous from the fumes. They stopped for coffee at Starbucks, and then for ice cream at Ben and Jerry's. They tried on fur coats, despite the fact that they had no intention (or money) to buy them. Santana discreetly steered Brittany away from the jewelry section, hoping she wouldn't notice it. For some reason, the idea of the ring display made her nervous.

There was no distracting her, however, from the electronics. She made a beeline toward the cameras. "Wow, look at this," she said, approaching one that was perched all alone on a pedestal, as if it was too good to associate with the other cameras. She lifted it reverently and held it to her eye. "This is like, top of the line. I would kill for one of these."

Santana smiled a little. "I don't think that would be necessary." But then she glanced at the price tag. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, causing the guy behind the counter nearby to look up in disapproval. Maybe it _would _be necessary. The thing was worth more than two grand. Her thoughts immediately transitioned from how she could buy the camera for Brittany to how she could shoplift it for her.

Setting it back down carefully, Brittany said in a rueful tone, "Maybe someday."

"Okay, let's get down to business here," Santana said, guiding her back toward the escalator. "We need to focus."

They headed up to the sixth floor, but within minutes were distracted once again.

"Cruel," Santana said, gazing out with a yearning look at the vast sea of merchandise that surrounded her. "It's just cruel. Why would they put lingerie on the same floor as bedding?"

"Well, if you think about it," Brittany said, "They do sort of go together."

One item in particular caught Santana's eye, and despite her best intentions, she went straight to it, holding it up to admire. It was a sheer, powder-blue camisole, and she ran her fingers appraisingly down the silky material. "This would look soo good on you," she breathed. "Look, it's the same color as your eyes. Try it on!"

"Are you allowed to try this stuff on?" Brittany asked, looking mildly disturbed. "Because that seems kind of gross."

Shifting her gaze around to check for eavesdroppers, Santana said in a low voice, "Do you want me to put it in my purse?"

"Santana, _no_," she told her, taking the cami from her and placing it back on the rack. "Come on. We need to focus, remember?"

She let herself be pulled away, but she couldn't resist one more plaintive look back. "But it's so pretty," she muttered.

Finally, they found the Domestics section and, within it, the bed sets. The vast amount of choices seemed a bit daunting, but Santana soon zeroed in on one. She lifted the packaged bundle, peering closer at the comforter folded within. "Check it out, this one is _super _sexy," she said.

Brittany didn't seem as enthusiastic. "I don't know. It's a little... dark."

"Yeah, but... dark is sexy, right?"

Casting her eyes around the aisle, she moved a few steps away and stopped in front of a different set. "What about this one? It's nice and bright."

Santana put her choice down and came closer, skeptical. "It's got butterflies on it. And... are those ladybugs?"

"I think so. What's wrong with ladybugs? At least it's not hummingbirds, with their weird scary needle beaks. They act like all they want to do is get nectar out of flowers, but they're not fooling anybody."

"No offense, Britt, but I think if I had to sleep under that, I'd have nightmares about them crawling on me."

"Well... if I had to sleep under that black one, I'd have nightmares about swallowing poison."

Santana made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a laugh, surprised. "Fine. Let's just keep looking. We'll find something we both like." It occurred to her, for the first time, that maybe this decorating business wasn't going to be quite as easy or as fun as she'd anticipated. She called up a mental image of Brittany's room at home in Lima, and then her own, and tried to create some kind of imaginary mash-up of the two. It was virtually impossible.

They moved down the aisle, then onto the next one, nothing much jumping out at either one of them. "At least we can agree that these all suck," Santana said. "That's a start."

Suddenly she felt something brush her hand, something warm and sticky, and she yanked her arm up, recoiling away from it. Out of nowhere, a three or four-year-old girl had materialized. She stared up at them, her eyes big with unshed tears. "I can't find my mom."

Santana took a step back. "What do you want us to do about it? We don't work here."

"_Santana_," Brittany said, reproachful. She lowered herself onto her knees, right there in the middle of the floor, making herself only slightly taller than the little girl. "It's okay, sweetie. I'm sure she's around here somewhere."

Impatient but also a little fascinated, Santana watched.

"Where did you see her last?" Brittany asked gently.

The little girl took a deep, shaky breath, as if this question required some deliberation. "She was trying on underwears."

"See, you _can _try that stuff on."

Ignoring her, Brittany said, "Okay, then.. she's probably not very far away. What does she look like?"

"She's got black hair, and she's fat. Mostly she's fat on the front of her, but a little bit on the back too."

Brittany smiled, charmed. She stood up, taking the girl's hand. "Let's go look in the lingerie section."

Santana followed. "Shouldn't you just send her to the service desk or something? I'm sure they handle this kind of thing all the time."

Glancing back, Brittany started to reply, but before she could, a heavily pregnant woman rushed by the end of their aisle, then stopped and turned back. She put her hand to her heart, relieved, but then within a split second she looked furious. "Sophie! What did I tell you about staying put?"

The little girl ran to her and, unbothered by the sharp tone, threw herself around her mother's legs. Taking her hand, the woman gave a weary sigh and tugged her off toward the lingerie section again, casting a suspicious look back at Brittany and Santana.

"You're _welcome_," Santana said sarcastically, though the woman was already too far away to hear. She watched her walk away, disgusted. "God, why do people breed? Especially when they can't even keep track of their spawn. I mean, seriously, isn't that what those baby leashes are for?" She shook her head a little. "I hate kids."

There was a silence following her words, and she turned to find that Brittany was staring at her with a strange expression. Almost as if she didn't recognize her.

"What?" she asked, but with a sensation like cold fingers touching her heart. She'd never seen that look on her face before.

After a few more seconds, Brittany said, "Nothing." But she seemed disappointed.

Feeling like she should say something else, but having no idea what, Santana slowly turned and went back to the bedding display. Brittany rejoined her, but then her phone rang.

"Hello?" She was quiet for a few seconds, and Santana watched her, trying to figure out who she was talking to. "Oh. No, that's okay. I'm actually not very far from there. Yeah, got it. Thanks." She lowered the phone, regretful. "That was work. Someone called in sick, so they need me to take his route."

"_Now_? But it's Sunday."

"Yeah, but... dogs still have to poop on the weekend."

They began heading back toward the escalator, both a bit downcast. The afternoon that had started off so promisingly had deteriorated fast.

"We didn't even accomplish anything," Santana said as they headed down. "This is what Mr. Schuester must feel like everyday."

"We'll have to finish later." Brittany thought about this, then added. "Maybe we should just let Kurt decorate the place, and then surprise us with it when he's done."

"I really hope you're joking." The problem was, at the moment, she wasn't actually sure. Brittany had a closed-off, slightly distant air. It was a rare occurrence, and it scared the hell out of her.

They parted outside the store, Brittany heading toward Chelsea, Santana heading back home. She thought about accompanying Britt on her rounds, but she hadn't offered, and it felt weird to invite herself. Besides, she didn't think she could work up the enthusiasm to pretend to care about a bunch of rich, spoiled-ass dogs. They probably slept in bigger beds than she did.

The train home was oppressively crowded, standing-room only. When she emerged from the station in Brooklyn, it had begun to freeze rain, which only worsened her already foul mood. Not only was her hair coated in ice by the time she got inside the building, but then she had to spend ten minutes hunting down a lost pair of eyeglasses in the terrifying recesses underneath Pete's chair, because "the Russians" had hidden them there.

"Keep an eye out for them, Aunt Olive," he cautioned her as she headed upstairs. "There's one in the building right now!"

All she wanted to do was change into comfortable clothes, make coffee, and listen to some emo music while she tried to figure out if she should feel guilty for anything about this afternoon, and if so, _what_, exactly. So, of course, the last thing she expected or wanted to see when she appeared in her own bedroom doorway was someone already in the room. Someone standing on top of the bed, brandishing a metal tape measure. Someone who looked an awfully lot like... Jesse St. James.

Baffled, she stared in open-mouthed shock, wondering for a split second if she was hallucinating.

Finally he turned around and noticed her. "Santana." Totally unruffled, he hopped down off the bed, making it look like part of a dance, then allowed the tape measure to slither its way back into the case as he stepped forward. "Long time no see."

To her relief, her voice returned to her. "What the hell are you doing in my room!"

He glanced around, still calm. "Oh, just taking a few measurements. It's a bit on the small side, but I can definitely envision the potential. What would you call this color on the walls... charcoal, or slate?"

Still trying to make sense of his presence, she at least had no trouble calling up the attitude required for this asinine question. "Hmm, let's see, if I was talking to someone who wasn't trespassing on private property, I would probably call it black. But since I'm talking to you, I'm gonna go with _None of your damn business_."

Now came Rachel's voice, traveling toward the room from the kitchen. "Jesse? We didn't have any honey to put in the tea, so I used maple syrup instead, I hope that's..." She froze in the doorway, looking awkward. "Oh. You're home. I... I was under the impression that you'd be gone longer."

"Well, _surprise_, I'm not. Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" There was a dangerous edge to her voice, which Rachel responded to with increased chirpiness and enthusiasm.

"Santana, you won't believe this," she said, setting the tea down on the desk, "But as it turns out, Jesse just arrived here in New York last week, and he's currently in need of somewhere to live. What are the chances? It really is perfect timing, isn't it?"

Jesse looked pleased with himself. "I've been asked to join the National Show Choir Overseeing Board. N-Scob for short, you might have heard of it?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "I feel like it's so important to give back to the organization that's given me so many opportunities. Of course, they'll be paying a fairly significant salary, so in a way, they're also giving back, to _me_. It's a two-way street of giving."

Rachel beamed at him, captivated as always. "And as I've told Jesse, I can't make any promises, but there's at least the possibility that Kurt and I will be able to use our new connections to help procure him his very own NYADA try-out. We'd be able to perform together, the way we were always meant to... if only the fates hadn't been determined to keep us apart."

Santana started to reply to this nonsense, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed Jesse with the measuring tape out again, now using it, for some reason, to measure the length from her wardrobe to the window.

"Hey, excuse me Billy Bush, do you mind? I realize that you'll probably have to knock out a wall or two to make room for your Manilow shrine and your extensive collection of hair products, but it ain't gon' be happening _today_, got it?"

He came back toward them, that trademark feline glint in his eyes. "I'm sensing a little hostility here. Perhaps I should come back another time?"

Rachel opened her mouth to protest, but Santana beat her to it. "You know what, that would be just _swell_," she told him.

Sighing, Rachel gave up. "I'll show you out," she offered, as if they lived someplace that actually required showing out. She gave Santana a pointed look of reproach before she turned and headed toward the front door. Jesse swept past Santana with his smarmy smile, and she followed with crossed arms, needing to confirm with her own eyes that he was out of the apartment.

"So Santana, what's the story?" he asked in a casual tone. "Couldn't hack it in the big city? Going back home to get in touch with your midwestern roots?"

"You _wish_," she said with scorn. "It just so happens that Britts and I are movin' on up. We got a place in Manhattan."

"Oh, that's right, I heard about you and Brittany." He stopped in the entryway and turned to face her. "Word travels fast in show choir circles, especially when it involves outings. I'm sorry about that, by the way. Must have been a nightmare."

Momentarily thrown by what sounded like genuine sympathy, she shrugged it off. "Yeah, well, save your pity. I'm fine. Never been better."

He examined her, narrowing his eyes in thought. "You know, it's funny... But I have to say, I never really got a gay vibe from you."

She gave him her best faux-polite smirk. "That _is _funny. Because I never really got a straight vibe from _you_."

Waiting a beat, he gave her a tight smile. "It was good seeing you again."

She tilted her head and kept up the dimpled pretense of charm as she watched him leave.

"Rachel," he said, kissing her hand. "Always a pleasure." Rachel gazed at him adoringly, the spark between them palpable, and Santana had a sudden premonition. _She is so going to sleep with him. _

"Thank you for coming by. I'm sorry about..." Rachel said, glancing back in Santana's direction but not finishing the sentence. "I'll call you later."

Finally, he was out, and Rachel closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for a second as if steeling herself for battle.

Santana wasted no time on preliminaries. "You have got to be fucking kidding me, Rachel. _That _guy? That's who you're replacing me with?"

"You're not being _replaced_," she said, as if the idea was silly. "You make it sound as if we're casting a television show. _In Season 2 the role of Santana will be played by Jesse St. James_."

"Yeah, well, that's sort of what it feels like! You didn't waste any time, did you?"

"I told you, he just got here last week. It's simply a... a fortuitous coincidence. Believe it or not, Santana, not everything in the world revolves around you." She started toward the kitchen, with an air of being finished with the discussion, but Santana followed her.

"You didn't already give him a definite move-in date, did you?"

"Of course not," Rachel said, opening a cabinet above the microwave and staring into it, but as if she couldn't remember what she'd wanted.

After scrutinizing her for a second, Santana said, "You're _lying_. Mm-hm... I can always tell, because your nose looks smaller. You're like a reverse Pinocchio."

She slammed the cabinet without taking anything out. "All right, so what if I did? It has nothing whatsoever to do with you. You won't even be here by then."

There didn't seem to be any readily available comeback to this, since it was true. Santana fell silent, then decided to come at the issue from a different angle. Remembering Rachel's reaction in the diner the day before, she said in a less-hostile tone, "I thought you didn't want me to leave."

"I didn't. I _don't_. But if you want to know the truth, I've been doing some thinking, and maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world for you and Brittany to have your own space. The fact is, every time I walk into a room lately, I feel like I'm interrupting something kinky that's about to happen."

"That's _crap_," Santana said disdainfully.

"Oh really? What about last weekend, when I came home after voice lessons and the two of you were wearing your Cheerios uniforms?"

Now Santana's demeanor changed slightly, and she looked at the floor, laughing just the slightest bit as she admitted, "Okay, yeah, _that _day, something kinky was definitely going down. Only it wasn't _about _to happen... it already had. Three times."

Rachel looked appalled. "Not in the living room?" At the shifty look on Santana's face, she interrupted herself, raising her hand as if to block the offending image. "Never mind, I don't want to know." Now she distracted herself by taking out a loaf of her organic bread. "The point is, I think this arrangement will work out best for everyone." She dropped two slices into the toaster, adding, "After all, this apartment really isn't meant for four people."

Even though she knew this was basically true, it still hurt a little to hear it. Things hadn't been going _that _bad. Other than the occasional bruised egos and raw nerves, they'd been making it work pretty well, in her opinion. Now she wondered if Rachel was just rationalizing after the fact, or if she'd actually felt like this all along. "Why does it have to be _Jesse_, though?"

"Why not?" Rachel said. She took a jar of apricot jam out of the refrigerator. "He's an old friend. And he's ready to move in right away. You know that Kurt and I can't afford this place on our own. We have to have someone else."

Santana made an effort to sound thoughtful and rational. "Yeah, I know that. And, hear me out. I've been thinking..." As she said this she watched Rachel ineffectually trying to open the lid of the jar. "What if I just kept paying rent for a while? You know, in case things don't work out? It would be like... holding my spot." Losing patience at watching her struggle, she reached out and grabbed the jar. "Give me that." She twisted the lid off easily and handed it back.

"You're going to pay rent on two separate apartments? Santana, that's insane. You can't afford that."

"Sure I can," she said lightly. "I'll just show a little more cleavage at work. Tips'll go through the roof."

Rachel pulled her toast out and put it on a plate, looking confused. "You get tips for singing?"

She shrugged a little, looking vague. "Well, technically I just steal the waitresses'. But the cleavage thing still works. It puts people in a giving mood."

After seeming to consider this idea, Rachel shook her head and said, "No.. no, I can't let you do that. It doesn't make any sense. And besides, Jesse _needs _a place to live."

"Fine," Santana said, with an air of giving up. "But I hope you realize, that guy is bad news. He's gonna end up screwing you over again, I guaranfuckingtee it. So you better not come crying to me when it happens."

"Believe me, that's the _last _place I'd go." She took out a butter knife and made angry, forceful swipes of jam across the toast. "And you're wrong about Jesse. He's not like that anymore. He cares about me."

"_Please_," she sneered. "I've never known anyone in my life who is worse at judging people than you are. All someone has to do is flatter you, maybe throw in a little Barbra reference, and you'll fall for anything. Remember that guy last semester who offered you free head shots, and then expected you to sleep with him?"

"Yes, well... I didn't, did I?" Rachel said, all affronted dignity at the reminder. "And I still got the film negatives, so everything worked out fine. I like to think of it as a learning experience."

"_I_ got the film negatives," Santana said, jabbing at herself for emphasis. "And I got rid of the guy, too."

"_Which _I thanked you for. Although, I'm still not sure how you managed to have him deported, considering that he was from Michigan."

"I have my ways," she said mysteriously.

Rachel gave a heavy sigh, staring down at the ravaged, unappetizing toast she'd made. Then, deliberating for a second, she opened the cabinet under the sink and dumped the whole thing into the trash. "Look, you can say whatever you want, but I don't care. I trust Jesse. People _change_."

With a cynical scoff, Santana said, "No they don't."

Now Rachel's temper flared up, and she turned around, facing her head-on. "All right, well... if people don't change, then I suppose I have no choice but to forever think of _you _as an evil, virginity-stealing slut!"

Taken aback, Santana gaped at her. "Okay, you do realize, don't you, Gizmo, that there is no one here to hold me back?" She took a few aggressive steps forward.

But instead of backing up, Rachel slammed her plate down into the sink, almost hard enough to break it, and came toward her. "You know what, you're right. So why don't you just go ahead and get it out of your system, once and for all?"

She stopped, surprised. "What?"

Rachel continued. "Go ahead! You've been wanting to kick my ass for years, haven't you? Well, now's your chance!" And with that, she reached out, and to Santana's utter disbelief, shoved her. Hard.

She took a dismayed step backward. "_Rachel_! What are you doing?"

She shoved her again, forcing her back another step. "Come on, let's see what you've got!" she demanded mockingly.

"Stop it!"

"Well?" She shoved her one more time, and now the refrigerator was against Santana's back, nowhere left to go. "What are you waiting for?"

Santana stared down at her, bewildered, feeling like she was witnessing someone in the grip of a demonic possession.

Rachel's face was only inches from hers now, and she waited, testing her. Santana leaned warily back against the refrigerator and returned her gaze, not breaking eye contact, but not otherwise moving. The bafflement in her expression gradually faded into mortification and then simply defeat. The moment stretched out.

"That's what I thought," Rachel finally hissed. She moved back a little, weary and disgusted.

Now, perhaps realizing that her bluff had been called, permanently and irrevocably, Santana's lip began to tremble. Her eyes watered. Her face crumpled. Then she wailed in a cracking voice, "_Why is everyone being so meeean to meee_?"

Rachel stared at her in shock, which soon turned to exasperation. "Oh for God's sake. And _I'm_ the drama queen?"

Santana moved over to the tiny kitchen table and sank down into a chair, sobbing almost incomprehensibly, "Brittany's mad at me because I don't want to sleep under stupid butterflies and ladybugs, and because I can't stand kids, but I mean, why do they always have to be so awful? They always _want _something, and they're always under your feet, and they're always _sticky_... why are they always sticky?" She gave Rachel a helpless look.

"The ladybugs?"

"The _kids_! And..." she sniffled loudly. "And then I get back here and find out I'm being replaced with Jesse St. Douchebag! And I'm sure everyone'll just love him. He'll fit right in," she wept. "He'll know all your lame-ass Broadway songs, and he'll go shopping with Kurt, and I bet even Pete'll start rooting for him to turn Greta straight and run away with her..." Her voice hitched in her throat, and she stopped, out of oxygen.

Sitting down in the chair diagonal to hers, Rachel passed her a dish towel, which she blew her nose in. "Santana, don't you think you're being a little overdramatic? I know it's that time of the month, but this is extreme, even for you."

She drew in a shaky breath in, trying to get it under control. "Everything just... sucks."

"Well... I'm afraid I can't help you with the ladybugs or the kids, because I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. But..." She stopped, as if trying to think of how to phrase it. Gently, she went on. "If you're not one-hundred percent sure about moving, maybe you should talk to Brittany?"

Santana stared at the table. After a silence, she seemed to come to a decision, shaking her head a little. She looked up. "I can't. I have to do this." She paused, then added in a soft voice, "What if it was Finn?"

The mention of the name seemed to pain her, like someone pressing on a bruise. She met her gaze, but then looked away, nodding slightly in acknowledgement. Just above a whisper, she said, "I understand."

They sat without speaking for a few minutes, both looking exhausted. Santana's face was puffy and swollen, and she continued to dab at her eyes with the dish towel.

Finally Rachel drew in a deep breath and stood, as if resolving that moping time was over. She stood behind Santana's chair and put her hands on her shoulders, saying in a coaxing voice, like a babysitter with a particularly difficult charge, "I have an idea. Why don't we make some cupcakes? You know, for old time's sake."

"God, Rachel, not everything can be fixed by your stupid cupcakes."

She sniffled again, staring moodily at the table. After a few seconds, she seemed to reconsider. With a small shrug, she added in a petulant voice, "Okay."

* * *

><p>Brittany lifted a framed photograph from the dresser in Santana's room. It was a shot of the entire glee club after their Nationals win, and she gazed down at it a bit wistfully. Then she wrapped it in newspaper and placed it carefully in the open box that was perched on the chair next to her.<p>

"What about your clothes?" she asked. "Do you think they'll all fit in your luggage, or should we box some of 'em up?"

Santana was on the bed, stretched out on her stomach, fiddling with Brittany's phone. She had mild cramps, which she was using as an excuse not to do much of anything. "You have like seven texts from your cat. How is that even possible?"

"Santana," she repeated. "Your clothes."

"I don't know," she said, brushing it off. "Don't worry about it. I'll deal with it later."

"We've only got two days left." She opened up the bureau and gazed at the overflowing contents with a daunted expression. "I don't know how you managed to get so much stuff in just six months."

"Yeah, well, it turns out not having sex leaves a lot of time free for shopping." She was still looking at the phone screen. "Why do you have Finn's number in here?"

"I have everyone's number. I don't want to lose touch." Brittany began pulling clothes off their hangers, folding them.

"Hey, we should call him and tell him about Jesse." Without waiting for an answer, she hit send.

Brittany looked at her, disapproving. "Why would you want to do that?"

The phone rang a few times, then went to voicemail. The expression on Brittany's face put a damper on her plans, however. Instead of what she'd intended, she said, "Hello, Mr. Hudson? This is Bridget from the Main Street OB-GYN. We're just calling to let you know that, according to our records, it's time for your yearly mammogram. I know life can get busy, but please get back to us at your earliest convenience. Breast health is _so _important." She smirked, adding, "You have a nice day, now."

Brittany seemed to be trying to suppress a smile, as if she wanted to be stern, but couldn't quite manage it. "That was mean."

"Oh, come on, he'll know it was me." She considered, looking around the room. "But speaking of mean, what do you think about hiding a little surprise in here for Jesse? Like a dead fish, or something. He won't find it for months."

"You don't think that's a little immature?"

"Well, of course it is. That's what's so great about it."

"He's not _that _bad," Brittany said, holding up a black cocktail dress against her body as though to see whether she'd be able to fit into it.

"Yes he is! He's like what would happen if..." She appeared to be thinking, "If Sixteen Candles' Anthony Michael Hall had a baby with Edward Scissorhands' Anthony Michael Hall, combining their geekiness and assiness in one person. And then...then _that _kid grew up and had a baby with Liza Minelli."

Brittany looked confused. "What about Breakfast Club Anthony Michael Hall?"

She shrugged a little. "He's not in it."

"But, I think he'd make a really good dad."

"No, Britt, that's not..." She shook her head, cutting herself off. "Never mind. The point is, Jesse sucks."

Folding the dress and placing it on top of the pile, Brittany rolled her eyes the slightest bit, but didn't offer any further comment. It was obvious from her demeanor that she was getting just a little bored with this particular subject, which had come up continuously over the past few days.

After a few minutes, Santana said, "Why don't you take a break? You're making me feel guilty."

"If I keep taking breaks, we're never gonna get this done."

"Sure we will, we've got plenty of time," she said in her best sweet-talking tone. "Come over here with me. My back hurts." She said this last part as if making an offer, as if rubbing her back was a privilege to be handed out only to the deserving.

Brittany looked amused, but she gave in, draping the skirt she held over the open box. Climbing onto the bed, she stretched out next to her. She settled herself, then, reaching down with her right hand, she rubbed slow, firm circles on Santana's lower back, just above her hips.

Santana turned her head on the pillow to face Brittany, feeling the warmth from her skin. Their noses were practically touching. "You're so good at that," she murmured in a drowsy voice, suddenly finding it hard to keep her eyes open.

"It's because I have strong fingers."

Now she opened her eyes, and they both laughed a little, staring at each other, obviously thinking the same thing.

"Hey, you know what?" Brittany asked softly after a few seconds, nuzzling even closer. "Bonnie and Eric think they might have to leave Grover behind."

"_Grover_," Santana repeated in a puzzled way, her eyes closed again now. Then she remembered. "Wait, the dog?"

"Mm-hm. They're afraid the rainforest natives might try to eat him. So... I was thinking maybe we could get him one of those big fluffy dog beds that's shaped like a heart. And every time he sleeps in it, he'll think of us."

Santana considered this, trying to come up with a way to sound enthusiastic when she really wasn't, but she couldn't concentrate. "What's that sound?" she asked.

Brittany turned her head a little. "What sound? That laughing?"

Sitting up now, Santana listened again. "What the hell is so funny out there? Is he here, _again_?"

"Do you want me to go see?"

But she'd already stood up and headed toward the door, determined to investigate on her own. She went down the short hall and crossed the entryway into the living room, then stopped, staring. Kurt and Rachel were on the couch, watching TV. Jesse sat in between them.

"What's going on?" she demanded, though it was fairly obvious what was going on. She ought to be getting used to it by now, considering that he'd been here at least five times in the last three days.

"Hello, Santana," Jesse said.

Ignoring him, she stared at Kurt, waiting for an answer.

"Nothing's going on," he said. "Jesse stopped by to drop off some carpet samples. And we're just watching Ice Road Truckers. Which is riveting, by the way."

"But we always watch American Idol on Wednesday night."

"Well, Jesse thought we could try something new," Rachel said.

"Oh, _did _he?" Santana asked sarcastically. She felt rather than saw Brittany approach behind her, felt her hand gently touch her elbow, as if trying to act as a soothing influence. She appreciated the effort, but it wasn't working.

Jesse turned, glad to engage with her. "I chose this program because the steely ballsiness of driving on top of ice speaks to the machismo beneath my own polished exterior. Plus, there's the occasional avalanche, and who doesn't enjoy the musical thunder of falling rocks?"

She narrowed her gaze at him like he was some kind of fascinating yet ultimately repelling rodent. And for the second time this week, with the worst timing possible, her wit failed her. She tried for something clever, but there was nothing there. All she had in her arsenal was a withering, "_Fuck off_, Jesse."

"Santana!" Kurt said in an offended voice, standing up. "Could you at least pretend to be a civilized person for a few minutes? Is that too much to ask?"

"Oh, you're on _his _side now? Need I remind you about the time he told you that you sang like a girl?"

"Actually, I believe he told me that I _failed _at singing like a girl," Kurt corrected her. "But that was almost two years ago. I'm over it."

She looked around, realizing she was now being stared at by four people - two of them (Kurt and Rachel) annoyed, one of them (Jesse) smugly amused, and one of them (Brittany) simply embarrassed for her. She felt all of their gazes arrayed against her, and it pissed her off. With a bitterly muttered, "Whatever," she headed to the front door, yanking it open and going out.

To her relief, the door to the roof was unlocked. It would certainly tarnish her dramatic exit if she'd had to return to the apartment to look for the keys.

She climbed the stairs and emerged at the top, then briskly crossed over to the ledge at the front of the building. The icy wind cut through her thin hoodie, and she wrapped her arms around herself to conserve warmth. She looked out across the neighborhood, waiting for her rage to die down to a smolder. It did, eventually, but she didn't feel much sense of relief.

After a few minutes she sensed movement behind her. She turned a bit, already knowing who it was.

Brittany held out her coat.

"I'm not cold," she lied. She didn't even know why.

"Put it on." Her tone was firm, no-nonsense. There was no arguing with it. Santana took the coat and pulled it around her. She showed her weak protest, however, by not buttoning it.

"What's going on with you?" Brittany asked.

"_Nothing_," she insisted, trying to sound rational. "I just hate that guy. He's such a little weasel. How come no one sees it but me?"

Brittany kept watching her, as if waiting for more, but when there was nothing else, she said with reluctance, "You know I usually give you a free pass, because I'm Team Santana no matter what. But I have to tell you, you're really being a brat lately."

At these words, Santana looked surprised and wounded. It was ridiculous, she knew, just how much it hurt to hear Brittany say something like that. It _shouldn't_ hurt so much.

She continued, as if she needed to justify the word. "You just... treat people however you want, and then you expect them to let you get away with it because that's just the way you are."

Santana thought about this. "Well... _yeah_," she said innocently.

Impatient at the fact that her point wasn't getting across, Brittany added, "Look, don't get me wrong, there's nothing you could ever say or do that would make me stop loving you. But... sometimes I wonder if I'll be the only one left. You can be really awful to people."

Letting this idea sink in, as depressing as it was, Santana met her eyes in acknowledgement. _Okay, I get it_, her face seemed to say.

Now that she had her attention, Brittany stepped forward even closer. "Talk to me," she urged her. "What is this really about? Do you not want to move in together?"

"Of course I want to!" she said. She swallowed, suddenly nervous. This was the conversation she'd been dreading, and she hadn't even realized it. "It's just... it's a big step, you know? It's a lot to process." And then, to her horror, she blurted out the words she'd been so determined not to say, the ones she'd been trying not even to _think_. "Living with someone is practically like getting married."

Brittany seemed mildly stunned by this concept. Her eyebrows went up a little, and she glanced to the side, as if hoping for moral support from an invisible companion.

Instantly, Santana regretted the words. She tried to backtrack. "Or at least that's how some people would see it. I'm not saying that _I_ do."

As if trying to choose carefully among possible responses to this, Brittany was quiet for a minute. "Santana... remember what you were telling me last week?" she said gently. "About how we don't have to know exactly what we're doing right now?"

"I was talking about careers."

"Yeah, but... still. Shouldn't it sort of apply to everything? I mean, what's so bad about taking things one day at a time? I think it's working pretty well so far."

"Well, Brittany, I hate to break it to you, but when you sign that one-year lease, it's gonna make it a little harder to take things one day at a time." Her tone was a bit sharper than she'd intended.

Absorbing the truth of this idea, maybe for the first time, Brittany seemed to have momentarily run out of things to say. She looked tired. Turning to face out over the edge of the roof, she stared down into the street.

After a few seconds, Santana followed her gaze. An unmarked taxi had just pulled up in front of the building across from theirs. A stooped ancient-looking man with a cane got out on the left side, then circled around slowly and opened the other backseat door. An equally old woman emerged, clutching at his arm. The taxi pulled away, and the couple began making their halting, laborious way toward the front door of their building, leaning against one another. It seemed to take ages. Santana wanted to stop watching, but for some reason she couldn't. Finally, they reached the door, and the man opened it, standing back and waiting for the woman to pass through. Then he inched shakily forward after her, the two of them at last safely inside and gone from sight.

Santana glanced over at Brittany, wondering if she wanted to resume their conversation, but was startled to discover that there were tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" The unspoken question in her mind was _What did I do?_

But Brittany's mind seemed to be dwelling on a different plane, not focused on their issues at all. Still looking down into the street, she said thoughtfully, just above a whisper, "I was just thinking about how many doors he's probably opened for her. Like, thousands, you know? And then one day soon, it'll be the last one." She shrugged a little, continuing in the same soft tone. "And they won't even know it. They won't even know it's the last time."

Santana continued to watch her face, struck by how much wisdom there was in her eyes, in her voice. This was a side of Brittany she'd only had brief glimpses of in the past, like something in the corner of her vision that was gone before she could turn her full attention on it. In some ways it felt like she was just getting to know her. Maybe it felt like that to her too. Maybe it felt, to Brittany, like she was just getting to know _herself_. The city seemed to have that effect on people, for better or worse.

She wanted to respond in kind, to say something that suited the emotional tone. But despite the sincerity of the moment, there was something in Santana that instinctively shied away from it. Instead, she spoke with mild dryness. "Okay, that started out romantic, but then it got kind of morbid at the end." Then, immediately ashamed of herself, she closed her eyes for a second. "I'm sorry," she whispered. _Why do I do that?_

Finally, Brittany turned back toward her, seeming to take in her entire state of confusion at a glance. With the trace of a tolerant smile just touching her lips, she bent forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Santana's cheek. It was a kiss that said,_ It doesn't matter. I love you anyway_.

"I'm gonna go finish packing." She headed back toward the stairs.

Santana remained where she was for a while, staring down into the street, lost in thought.

* * *

><p>The Macy's bag she carried the next afternoon was so bulky that the handles didn't quite meet, even when she squeezed them together. She was forced to grip it with both arms, cradling it in front of her like a beer gut or a pregnancy. On the subway, other people bounced off of it like a shield, giving her dirty looks. Normally she would have been embarrassed, but today, she didn't care. She couldn't help but be pleased about what she'd bought. She felt good about it. In a weird way, she felt more at peace than she had all week.<p>

She wondered if at least part of this was due to the fact that she hadn't slept well last night, and if perhaps the sleep deprivation was inducing a buzzed-like state. But she didn't really think that was it. It was true, she'd had a miserable night. When she'd finally drifted off the first time, she'd dreamed that she'd returned home to find an empty, vacated apartment and a note from Rachel with a big smiley face on the top that read _"Jesse thought it would be fun if the three of us backpacked through Europe for a year. See you next January!"_

Then, getting back to sleep for the second time, she'd had a nightmare in which she stood at a locked turnstile in the subway station. She swiped her metro card, but it wouldn't open. Up ahead of her and already on the platform was Brittany, holding the hand of a little girl who bore a striking resemblance to the one who'd sought their help in the department store. Also with them, absurdly, was Anthony Michael Hall in his Breakfast Club sweatshirt, looking like he'd stepped straight out of 1985. The three of them seemed to form some kind of family unit. They laughed and chatted together. As if from a great distance, she heard Brittany say in an amused voice, "Oh my God, it was a flare gun?"

"Brittany!" she'd called, trying to get her attention, needing to let her know her card wasn't working. But she didn't turn around. It was like she couldn't hear her.

Then the train approached, seeming to take forever, drowning out all sound. Growing more and more frantic, she kept trying to swipe her card, but nothing happened. The gate remained locked. Now the train was fully into the station. It screeched to a stop. The doors opened, the passengers exited, and the ones in the station began to board. "Brittany! Wait!" She'd thought about jumping the damn turnstile, but her legs felt like they were made of lead. Going underneath it seemed equally impossible.

Then the three of them had gotten into the car, all holding hands, linked by the little girl in the middle. Santana watched, helpless, as the doors began to close. Only the little girl, at the last second, seemed to notice her. She met her eyes, looking almost accusing, but then the doors whooshed shut and she was gone.

Santana had woken up in a cold sweat, anxiously groping around the small bed to make sure Brittany was next to her. After that, she'd held onto her for comfort until her heart rate returned to normal, then slid out noiselessly and gone into the kitchen to make coffee. The idea of going back to sleep wasn't appealing.

But despite the fact that she was tired after such a rough night, she was in a good mood today. Something in her seemed to have undergone a subtle change, an emotional shift that she couldn't quite explain, but that she could feel. Maybe it had been the talk on the roof last night. Maybe it had been the dream. Maybe it was the shopping trip today, or possibly none of them at all. Whatever the case, she was looking forward to getting home and seeing Brittany, then finishing the last of the packing. For the first time since Friday night, she didn't feel afraid.

Inside the building's foyer, she checked to see if Pete was awake. He appeared to be sleeping, but as she approached, he opened one eye, the grizzled brow arching up warily.

"Well?" she asked him in her best spy voice. "What's the lowdown? Any news on the Salamander today?" The Salamander was their agreed-upon code name for Jesse.

He shifted his recliner into the upright position, leaning forward and casting a few covert glances around to make sure they were alone. "Affirmative," he whispered hoarsely. "He was here for just a few minutes, around eleven. He brought a box. Didn't see what was in it, but I suspect phone-tapping equipment." He paused, adding, "I almost missed him, because I went inside to have my bowel movement, which took longer than usual today. It always does on Thursday, you know, because Wednesday night I have..."

"Okay, Pete, just..." She raised her hand to stop him, abandoning the secretive tone. "That's okay. Thanks." Then, as if she'd just remembered, she set down her large package and took out a smaller shopping bag from inside her purse. "Oh, before I forget... I got you these." She withdrew a brand-new pair of reading glasses, passing them to him. "Just in case the Russians hide the other ones again, now you'll have a spare set."

He unfolded them, his face contorted in surprise. After examining them from every angle, he finally put them on, exclaiming, "Jeepers!" He picked up the newspaper to try them out. "I'll be able to read the secret messages they put in the personal ads. They're so clear!"

"Yeah, that's because they're _clean_."

He gave her a rare, boyish look of frank happiness. "Thank you, Aunt Olive."

She smiled a little, and then, impulsively, bent and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. When she raised up, she considered trying to explain about the move, but she didn't have the heart to do it right now. In his addled mind, he probably wouldn't be able to make sense of it anyway.

Upstairs, she closed the front door gingerly behind her and listened. The place was quiet. She'd doubted Kurt and Rachel would be home yet, but she was still relieved to see she was right. She checked the living room and kitchen, but both were empty, so she headed toward her own room at the end of the short hallway. Brittany was sitting on the bed, staring at her laptop. She looked up. There was something the slightest bit dejected in her manner. "Hey." Noticing the bulky Macy's bag, asked, "What's that?"

"I got a little something for you," Santana said, pleased with herself. "It's sort of... I don't know, to make up for being awful."

"You weren't being awful to _me_."

"Yeah I was," she insisted, rolling her eyes a little. "So..." She set the bulky shopping bag on the floor and reached inside, sliding from it a plastic-wrapped bedding set. It was the bright one Brittany had picked out on Sunday.

"_Santana_," she said as if she felt guilty, smiling a little. "You don't _like _that one."

"No, I really think I'll learn to," she insisted. "I just have to force myself to get over the fact that butterflies are basically flying insects, and that they start off as worms..."

"Caterpillars."

"Whatever. It'll grow on me." She smiled at her. "And wait, that's not all." From the very bottom of the bag she pulled out the powder-blue camisole, holding it up proudly like a game show model. "Okay, I admit, this one's really more of a gift _for me_. But it was on sale."

Brittany took it from her, laughing a little. She held it and stroked the fabric, musing. "This is so sweet."

"And last but not least, I... have something I need to say," Santana went on, nervous now. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. "The other day, when that little girl was looking for her mom... I shouldn't have said all that stuff. I just haven't been around that many kids before, other than your sister. And she's like a miniature version of you."

Curious, Brittany waited.

She continued, sitting down on the bed next to her. "Anyway, I just wanted to say... the fact that I don't like other people's kids, it doesn't mean that I wouldn't want to..." She stopped, uncomfortable. "I mean, it doesn't mean that _we _could never..." She stopped again, wondering why this was so difficult. Desperate for a reprieve, she looked up at Brittany. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She seemed to consider playing dumb, forcing her to be more specific, but she couldn't do it. She smiled understandingly. "Yeah. I think so."

"Okay. Good." She let her breath out in relief. "I just wanted to be clear about that."

Brittany continued to look at her for a second, proud and grateful. Then she leaned toward her and cupped her face, giving her a kiss that surprised Santana in its intensity. She closed her eyes and gave into it, riding the crest as it gradually increased in force, the pressure of Brittany's mouth and the insistent probing of her tongue making her forget to breathe. Air was overrated, anyway.

But then Brittany seemed to force herself to pull away, gasping a little. She leaned back, staring down at her lap, as if suddenly remembering something unpleasant. "Damn it," she muttered to herself. "I feel really, really bad now."

"Why?" Santana asked, puzzled. She glanced around, looking for the answer. "This stuff was a surprise, you didn't have to get me anything."

"No, it's not that." She stood up and went to the window, looking at the pizza place behind their building. Reluctantly, she said. "It's just, I was at Eric and Bonnie's this morning." She turned back to face her, regretful. "Santana... we didn't get the apartment."

"_What_?" She was nearly as shocked as when she'd first been asked to move into it. "But I thought they weren't showing it to anyone else."

"They didn't." Brittany crossed her arms and leaned back against the windowsill. "But it turns out they're not moving after all. Bonnie just found out she's pregnant, and they're not really sure who the father is. Apparently there are about four different candidates." As if the idea had just occurred to her, she added, "I get the feeling they might be just a little flakey?"

Santana bit her lip, nodding at this understatement of the century. "Maybe a little."

"So, that's that, I guess," Brittany sighed, as if relinquishing the entire thing.

Santana stared down at the camisole on the bed, wondering exactly how to respond, not wanting to say the wrong thing. She was disappointed, and yet, at the same time...

Almost as if reading her mind, Brittany told her, "It's okay, you don't have to pretend to be too upset. I know you weren't that crazy about the idea."

"Britt, it's not that," she assured her. "I _wanted _this for us. But you can't blame me for being a little sad about leaving everything. This place has been my home for half a year. I love this broke-ass neighborhood... I can't help it. And I love this building... and all the eccentric whackjobs in it. It's like free entertainment."

"Including the two who live in this apartment," Brittany couldn't help throwing in.

She gave a tiny shrug, embarrassed to admit it. "Yeah, _sometimes_. I know we fight a lot, but it's kind of like a sport for us. We enjoy it. Or at least_ I _do, and that's all that really matters."

"I get it," Brittany said softly. And to her credit, it looked like she really did. "I think I was probably jumping the gun a little bit, anyway. Though I've never understood that phrase. Why are people jumping? Is there, like, a trampoline? Because you shouldn't mix guns and trampolines, even I know that." Losing the track of her meaning, she struggled to remember what she'd been saying. "Anyway. I'm sorry about all this."

"Don't be," Santana said in a firm tone. She got up and went to stand by the window with her, wanting to make sure her meaning sunk in. "The fact that you were willing to sign that lease... you have no idea how much that means to me, Brittany. It means _everything_." She brushed away a tear, not intending to get that emotional. But she couldn't help it. The fact that they weren't actually going anywhere seemed almost beside the point. All that mattered was that they'd been ready to.

She leaned up against her, loving the way she could so easily, by bending just a little, tuck her head under Brittany's chin. She let herself be held for a moment. Then, when she was confident that she could speak without her voice breaking, she stepped back, taking a deep breath. "But... I guess we did all this packing for nothing."

Brittany was polite enough not to remind her that she'd actually done most of the packing herself while Santana had lounged around in sweats with a hot water bottle, being useless. As if she'd just remembered it, she said, "Actually... we _are _still moving. But just across the hall. We're trading rooms with Rachel."

"You're kidding me." She stared at her in surprise. "How the hell did you manage that heroic feat?"

"We worked out an arrangement." Then, when Santana still waited for details, she added with irony, "You are looking at the official director-slash-producer of the upcoming short film _Metaphors are Important: The Rachel Berry Story_. Starring Rachel Berry."

"Oh my God," Santana laughed in pity, bringing her hand up to her mouth. "Are you _sure _that it's worth it? Just for a bigger room?"

"A bigger bed, too," Brittany said, smiling coyly. "Don't forget about that part."

And, since the larger bed was now technically theirs, they decided, by mutual consent, that there was no time like the present to try it out for the first time.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Santana sat in the middle of the couch, Kurt and Rachel on either side of her. Stupid as she knew it was, she couldn't help feeling a sense of victory. The enemy had been vanquished. The Salamander had flown the coop. Or something like that. The point was, this was <em>her <em>spot. Not Jesse's. And now that she'd reclaimed it, all was right with the world.

With her realization earlier today that their not getting the apartment in Hell's Kitchen necessarily meant that _he _wouldn't be getting _this _one, Santana had begged to be allowed to break the news to him. Alas, it wasn't to be... Rachel had insisted on doing it herself, in private. By her account, he had taken the news like a complete gentleman, and even offered to leave his box of carpet samples in their possession, should they choose to make use of his decorating advice. Santana rolled her eyes at that. It didn't matter, though. At least he wouldn't be living here. He was still obnoxious as hell, and she suspected she hadn't seen or heard the last of him, but with the sense of threat gone, she thought she could handle being in his presence without behaving like a six-year-old. Time would tell.

"Oh, look!" Rachel said, pointing at the screen. "The man on the right. You can tell he's never held a baseball bat before, he doesn't know what to do with it. Gay. So gay."

"Good _eye_," Santana told her approvingly.

"That doesn't count," Kurt said, sounding bored.

They looked at him. "Why not?"

"Because that's Sal Mineo. Everyone knows he was gay."

Rachel glanced at Santana. "_We _didn't."

"Yeah, it counts if _we _didn't know."

He seemed to consider arguing the point, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Fine," he told them, but still sounding superior about it.

Brittany appeared in the room, wearing her pajamas, but also with shoes and a jacket on.

"Hey," Santana looked up. "You want to play _How Many Gays? _with us? I think we might break a record tonight. These Cold War movies are golden... everyone was hiding something."

"Um, I might catch the end of it, but.. right now I sort of have a date, with Pete."

Santana raised her eyebrows. "Should I be worried?"

She smiled, zipping her jacket. "He likes to hear stories about Herman." Off of their puzzled looks, she reminded them, "His son."

"Ah, right. The kitty-litter tester," Kurt said.

She went on. "And I know it sounds weird, but I'm really starting to like Ruby. In some ways I think she's more interesting than Brittany."

"Well, I _highly _doubt that," Santana told her with affection. "But have fun."

When she was gone, they continued to watch the movie companionably for a few minutes. Unable to help herself, Santana suggested, "I bet Jesse would really suck at this game."

Rachel gave her a reassuring pat on the knee. "No doubt about it."

She waited, then asked, "Do you guys think I'm a brat?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely," Kurt added.

"But you know that, like, even when I say shitty things..." She stopped, then tried again. "I mean, it's not like I don't still..." Mortified and wishing she hadn't begun this impossible speech, she gave up, somehow managing to sound insulted. "Forget it."

Kurt let the silence stretch out a bit longer, relishing her awkwardness. Without looking away from the TV, he tossed off in a casual way, "We love you too, Santana."

She settled back into the cushions, the faintest ghost of a triumphant smile playing about her lips.

On the screen there now appeared a voluptuous, brassy woman who was ostensibly there to charm the pants off the leading man, but who kept throwing appraising glances at the young ingénue. She even seemed to be directing her lines toward her, in a subtle, roundabout way. The leading man struggled to engage her focus, his ego noticeably stung.

The three of them watched the scene for a few seconds, attentive to detail. Then at the same time, with confidence, they all said, "Lesbian."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Sorry this chapter is late, but I wanted to wait until the site was sending out email alerts again. I'm so tired of the glitches. I also post the update links on my tumblr (link in profile) if you're not getting alerts from here.

Someone asked if Brittany's weird jealousy thing with Rachel will be directly addressed, and yes, that whole issue will definitely come to a boil before the story is over. But for this chapter at least, I'll be the first to admit that I veered wildly toward fluff, especially when it comes to Brittana. It's the Valentine's Day chapter, and I thought they needed a little break from the drama. There will be more to come, though.

(Technical issue, feel free to skip) spiceygleek: I'm not sure what you mean by "voiceover?" The narration isn't meant to be in Santana's voice, if that's what you're referring to. Every once in a while I sort of dip into her consciousness for a phrase or two, to inject some Santana attitude/POV into the description, but for the most part, the narrator is just supposed to be kind of a disembodied observer (me, I guess.)

It's looking like this fic will probably be 12 chapters, not 10 as I said last time. Pretty soon Glee is going to come back and mess with my canon, heh, but I'll just keep going with my own versions. I'm having way too much fun writing this, and I want to say a huge THANK YOU, again, to everyone who reviews. There's no way I would be doing it otherwise. This thing is a life eater. To know I'm not doing it in a void means so, so much to me.

Oh, one last note: I _highly _advise watching the YouTube music vids for TLC's _What About Your Friends _and _Ain't 2 Proud to Beg _after reading this installment. They were the main inspirations for a certain part of the chapter, and I defy you to picture the girls in those clothes without being entertained. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

With her eyes closed, it was easy to forget where she was. She leaned against Brittany, swaying gently, breathing in the clean, natural, non-perfumy scent of her neck. Santana had her arms up and around her shoulders, and Brittany's hands rested lightly on her waist. It was enough to just exist in this moment, losing track of time, of location, of the fact that they weren't alone. With her eyes closed, she could pretend they were the only ones in the room.

"Santana." Brittany's lips brushed her ear. "The music stopped."

With reluctance, she opened her eyes again. They seemed to be the only two left on the dance floor, still locked together under the red and pink crepe streamers and heart-shaped balloons.

"It'll start again in a minute," she said softly. "This is NYADA. It's like an official rule that music has to be playing at least ninety percent of the time. It's even piped in to the bathrooms."

She was proven right when another song soon started up, luckily a slow, bluesy ballad from the fifties, meaning that they didn't have to let go of each other just yet. So they continued rocking together, hardly moving at all, a semblance of dancing that was really just an excuse to hold each other in public and have it be socially acceptable.

Of course, if someone wanted to get technical and enforce the rules, it had to be acknowledged that neither one of them had much business being at this Valentine's Dance at all. They weren't students here. But Rachel and Kurt were allowed to bring dates, and at a school where sexualities ranged from one end of the rainbow spectrum to the other, nobody had batted an eye at the fact that a straight girl and a gay boy had each shown up with one half of a lesbian couple as their "date." In this rare bastion of acceptance, nobody cared. It was one of the reasons that Santana so often found herself drawn back to the place. Even now, out on the dance floor with Brittany, no one gave their intimacy a second glance. Sometimes it was nice to pretend that this was the norm, blissfully ignoring for a few hours the complicated real world waiting just outside the doors.

"So..." Brittany said after a few more minutes of trance-like swaying. "You were gonna tell me who's who, remember?"

"Mmm," she protested sleepily against her shoulder, already regretting the earlier promise. But eventually she pulled back a little, taking a deep breath of renunciation. "Okay, if you insist." She scanned the room, getting a fix on locations. "Let's start with that guy Kurt is shamelessly flirting with." Brittany turned her head to look, and Santana continued. "Elijah Cohen, kind of the BMOC around here. Gets most of the leading-man type roles. Plays straight _very _convincingly, according to Rachel, whose word of course can't be trusted even the slightest bit. But... pretty much everyone here is madly in love with him."

"He's cute," Brittany commented.

Santana shrugged a little, in a way that indicated _If you say so_. Her days of honing those particular judgment skills were, mercifully, in the past. She shifted her gaze past Elijah and Kurt. "And that group over there in the back, those are mostly dancers. They're cool. Kinda laid-back... they don't have the massive egos that the actors have. You'd like 'em."

She leaned into Brittany again, delicately turning the two of them in the other direction. "Oh, see that Asian girl, over by the DJ? That's Polly Lin. She's like their Tina, only they actually let her sing. She's _amazing_."

Brittany tilted her head back and scrutinized Santana for a few seconds, teasingly. "You think she's _sexy_."

Feeling her face heat up just the slightest bit, she grinned back, not denying it. "Maybe a little."

"Actually, she _is_," Brittany agreed, looking again.

"Okay, moving on," Santana said, spinning her in a different direction. "Those guys over by the refreshment table? Those are what we call the Neurotic Heteros. They're constantly on the defensive about the fact that they go to this school, so every few minutes they like to try to remind everyone how straight they are." As if on cue, one of the guys produced a beer can from somewhere and chugged from it, the others chanting him on. "Like that," she added dryly.

She let her gaze travel around the room, stopping on a tall, dark brunette who had strategically positioned herself under a filtered spotlight. "And _that_," Santana said with emphasis, gesturing toward her, "Is Allison DuPont... NYADA Queen Bee, and undisputed top bitch at this place. This is her last year in the program, and everyone's convinced she's headed for stardom. Though I've never been able to figure out _why_, since she can't sing or dance for shit. She believes in the dramatic arts, emphasis on _drama_. Thinks musicals are a debased form and everything that's wrong with modern theater."

"She looks mean," Brittany said, raising her eyebrows a little.

"Oh, she's totally soulless," Santana agreed. "I've never seen her smile. And she wears that bun on her head so tight I doubt she can even blink. So you would think that all these Fosse-footed Sondheim-spewing mooncalfs up in here would give her a wide berth, right? Wrong. For some reason, they all worship the ground she soliloquizes on."

Just in time to prove the point, Rachel approached the girl with two plastic cups of punch, holding one out to her as if it were an offering to an oracle. Allison peered down at it with lofty disdain and eventually accepted it, though without taking a drink.

"Rachel, for example," Santana continued, "has made a hobby out of seeing exactly how far she can crawl up Allison's ass."

Santana and Brittany continued dancing, watching the strained exchange, which mostly consisted of Rachel smiling tensely and trying to engage Allison's attention while Allison stared idly around the room as if she couldn't figure out where that irritating voice was coming from, but as if she wished it would stop. After a few minutes it became unbearable. "God, this is just pathetic," Santana muttered. "I'm thinking this conversation needs a cameo by yours truly. Come on."

Although Brittany didn't seem particularly thrilled by the idea, she followed Santana off of the dance floor. Rachel glanced up as they approached, an expression of mixed annoyance and dread crossing her face.

"Allison!" Santana said by way of greeting, putting on her best fake smile. "I see you went with a gray turtleneck instead of black for tonight. Valentine's Day just brings out the sap in all of us, doesn't it?"

Rachel sighed wearily. "You remember my roommate, of course."

"Santana," Allison said, giving her a look of barely concealed distaste. "You know, for someone who doesn't attend this school, we certainly do see a great deal of you, don't we?"

"Well, it's just that you're all such _fascinating _people," she said, bringing a hand up to her heart to mimic sincerity. "I really can't help myself."

Sarcasm being apparently outside the range of human emotions that she deigned to acknowledge, Allison didn't respond to this remark other than with a flat stare.

"And this is her girlfriend, Brittany," Rachel went on, still making an effort to sound pleasant. "She recently moved in with us, too."

"Hi," Brittany said, wary.

Giving her the once-over and not bothering to disguise it, Allison said after a few seconds. "You're a dancer." It was spoken as a statement, not a question.

"Um... no," Brittany said, confused. "I mean, I _like _to dance. But I don't really have any training or anything."

"Though to be honest, she doesn't need any," Santana said, maneuvering her way back into the conversation. "She has phenomenal natural talent. Much like Rachel, with singing." As if it had only just occurred to her for the first time, she said, "Gosh, I am just surrounded by _musically _talented people."

To her immense delight, Allison took the bait. "Musical talent is vastly overrated. Drama is the heart and soul of theater," she lectured in a pinched voice. "It's the purest form of human expression, and it's nothing to sing and dance about." Self-satisfied, she added, "After all, I think I would know a little something about it, considering that I've been on the stage since I was three."

"Wow, _three_," Santana repeated. "That is super impressive, isn't it?" she asked, glancing at Brittany. "Oh, speaking of the stage. Hey, Rach? Some guy called the land line at the apartment this afternoon, and it just totally slipped my mind until right this second. His name was... Stuart something." She pretended to think. "Stuart _Carmichael_, does that ring any bells?"

"Stuart Carmichael the producer?" Allison asked, her eyes suddenly keen with worried interest.

Santana gave her a shrug. "Maybe. I don't really know much about this theater stuff." To Rachel, she went on, "But apparently he saw some old videos of you singing on You Tube, and he wanted you to call him back as soon as you could. Sounded pretty urgent."

With a mildly panicked expression, Rachel tried to placate Allison. "I... I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just a wrong number."

"Excuse me," Allison said, her voice icy. She turned imperiously and moved off.

Santana tilted her head a bit and waggled her fingers at her, watching with a victorious smirk as she walked away.

Rachel also watched her go, still with a forced smile, then spun around, livid. "_What are you doing_?" she hissed at Santana through clenched teeth. "You just made that entire thing up! And since when do you call me _Rach_?"

"What? I thought that was a nice touch," she said, amused.

"How do you even know who Stuart Carmichael is? Did you do _research _for this?"

"What can I say, I likes to get my Wikipedia on," Santana admitted.

"Look, I know you can't stand Allison, but it is imperative that I stay on her good side, all right? She's on the senior panel of judges for the spring revue, and it just so happens that they're doing an Arthur Laurents tribute this year."

"The cartoon aardvark?" Brittany asked. "I love him."

"No, Brittany," Rachel said, impatient. "Different Arthur. He wrote the book for West Side Story, among other shows. Which means that I should be a shoe-in for Maria, considering that I've already played her to such high acclaim."

"What acclaim?" Santana scoffed.

"The Lima Post-Gazette said I was the best Maria they'd ever seen."

"Well, newsflash, that's because you were probably the _only _one they'd ever seen."

"Be that as it may, I still need to make a good impression on Allison if I have any hope of her choosing me! Can't you see that I am _networking _here, Santana?"

"Oh, really, is that what you call it? Because from where we were standing it looked more like ball-washing. Face it, she treats you like shit."

"You know what, I can handle myself," Rachel said defiantly. "I don't need your help. I knew bringing you tonight was a mistake."

"Whatever," Santana said, rolling her eyes with an air of finality. "I did you a huge favor... you just went way up in that bitch's estimation, trust me. And besides," she added, "You didn't bring me. I'm Kurt's date."

"We drew straws," Brittany explained. "I got the short one."

Suddenly Kurt appeared, looking flustered. "All right, ladies, we put in an appearance. What do you say we call it a night?"

"What? Why?" Rachel asked him. "The evening is still young... no one's even broken into an impromptu performance number yet."

"No, he's right, this dance is lame," Santana agreed. "It feels like high school. We should go to a club or something."

Brittany was regarding Kurt with curiosity. "What happened? You looked like you were having fun."

"What happened? The same thing that usually happens when I talk to someone attractive. I opened my mouth, and _words _kept pouring out... they just wouldn't stop." He shuddered. "Like those mudslides you see on the news where entire houses slide off of cliffs. It was horrifying. And now that I've made a complete fool of myself, I think it's time to skedaddle, so... shall we?"

But Brittany was peering around him, checking to see if Elijah was still here. He was, but he'd moved over to the refreshment table. "Why don't you just ask him out?"

Kurt looked at her like she was crazy. "Me, ask _Elijah Cohen _out? I'm fairly certain that until I started verbally harassing him ten minutes ago, he had no idea who I even was."

"So? He does now." She waited, and when he still didn't give in, she said casually, "I'll do it." Without waiting for his consent, she walked off.

"Brittany, no!" he said in a panicked whisper, trying to go after her. "What are you doing?"

But Santana blocked him, enjoying this way too much. "It's too late now, Audrey," she told him. "Best just stand your ass back and let her work her magic."

He turned around, as if wanting to hide himself against Rachel. "Oh, God," he moaned. "Do you suppose it's possible to get into the witness protection program based on sheer mortification?" Rachel patted his arm in a consoling way. But she was still scanning the room for Allison, absorbed in her own drama.

Santana watched admiringly as Brittany introduced herself to Elijah with ease and chatted him up. Anyone who didn't know better would think that _she _was flirting with him. She gestured over toward Kurt, who was still frozen in misery. After a few more seconds, she smiled and came back over to them.

"You're right, he had no idea who you were."

"What did I tell you?" Kurt exclaimed. "Do you have any idea how humiliating this is, Brittany? What were you thinking?"

"But... he said yes," she went on. "You have a date with him. Thursday night."

Stunned, Kurt didn't have any reaction to this for a few seconds.

"I believe the words you're looking for are _Thank you_," Santana told him smugly. "And maybe also, _This jacket makes me look like a genteel hobo_. But that last part's optional."

"I... I can't believe he agreed," Kurt said in wonder. "I never thought in my wildest dreams I could get a date with Elijah. Wait... You said Thursday." He suddenly looked worried. "Thursday is Valentine's Day."

"I thought today was Valentine's Day," Brittany said, wrinkling her brow.

"You did not!"

She smiled a little, conceding the lie. She'd of course known perfectly well that the dance was being held early, so that it could take place on a Saturday. "Okay, fine, I didn't. But why is that a big deal? It's romantic."

"I don't know... it's just a lot of pressure for a first date, isn't it?"

"Well... Santana and I can help you figure out something good. It'll be amazing, trust me."

He took a deep breath, obviously trying not to let nerves get the best of him. Then, noticing Rachel's utter lack of interest in the entire conversation, and the way her eyes kept darting around the room, he demanded, "Rachel, what are you doing?"

Santana turned to trace the path of her gaze, noticing that Allison was just disappearing in the direction of the bathroom. "You know what, you'd better follow up on that. She might need help wiping or something."

Rachel gave her a withering look. But then she seemed to be considering. Thrusting her cup of punch into Brittany's hands, she took off toward the bathroom. "Allison!"

* * *

><p>Late that night, they walked from the subway station toward home. Brittany and Santana leaned against each other, tired. After a slow start, the dance had considerably picked up steam when the hetero boys finally managed to spike the punch. Brittany in particular had been dancing non-stop for almost two solid hours. She'd drawn quite a bit of attention, to Santana's proud satisfaction. Some of the attention had been appreciative and impressed (from the NYADA dancers), while some had been suspicious and unnerved (from Allison). But there was no doubt she'd been the unexpected star of the evening. She'd looked incredible out there. Now Santana had her arm linked possessively around her waist, as if she wanted all the world to know Brittany was hers.<p>

Up ahead of them, Kurt and Rachel were engaged in an obnoxious argument that had been getting louder ever since they'd stepped off the train.

"It's not that I don't agree they're all amazing shows," Kurt was saying. "La Cage aux Folles is spectacular, and you know how I feel about Gypsy. But I just think maybe it's time to acknowledge some newer productions, maybe work them into the repertoire. What's wrong with that?"

"But the whole point of a tribute is to honor the past! Those musicals are classics, they'll never go out of style. And besides, revivals are huge right now."

"I realize that," he said, weary. "Sometimes I think they're _too _huge. Walking down Broadway these days is like going back in time, Rachel. Do you know how difficult it would be to get an original show past the workshop stage?"

She started to reply to this, but from behind them, Santana cut her off. "Oh, for the love of Gaga_,_ would you both please shut the hell up! Every time you talk about this shit, it sounds like that teacher on the Charlie Brown cartoons. It's not even words, it's just noise."

"I never had any trouble understanding the Charlie Brown teacher," Brittany put in drowsily, sounding puzzled. Santana looked at her, then gave her an affectionate squeeze.

As if he hadn't heard Santana, or as if he was so used to her complaining that he no longer paid it any notice, Kurt went on. "All I'm saying is that fetishizing the classics means you risk stifling creativity." He paused, then, as if forcing himself to get it out, added, "I know it sounds insane, but I'm starting to think that maybe NYADA isn't the best fit for me after all. The fact is, lately I'm feeling just a little... well, bored."

Rachel was appalled. "Kurt, how can you say that? After everything we went through to get here? After everything we sacrificed?"

"Oh God, tell me she is not going to cry," Santana groaned.

"You don't think I've considered that?" he asked. "Believe me, this is the last thing I ever thought I'd find myself saying. This was my dream. This was _our _dream."

"I think I hear violins playing," Brittany remarked wryly. Santana gave a snort of laughter.

Now Rachel came to a halt and turned to him, blocking the sidewalk and forcing Santana and Brittany to stop behind them. "Just, whatever you do, promise me you won't make any hasty decisions. At least not until we've had a chance to really talk this through. I don't want to do this without you, Kurt."

He considered, then nodded slightly. "I promise." They smiled at each other a little, then hugged.

Now Santana's impatience boiled over. "Oh come on! Do you realize this very special episode of Blossom is dramatically increasing the chances of us all getting our asses mugged out here? _Move it_!"

Giving her a look that was both annoyed and intimidated, they finally started walking again.

Once inside the building, Kurt and Rachel continued directly on up. But Brittany lingered for a moment, peering over at Pete in his shadowed recess. The afghan he slept under had slipped down past his knees, so she approached softly and pulled it up around his shoulders again. She stood back and took Santana's hand, whispering, "When he's asleep, he looks like an old, wrinkled baby."

But attuned as Pete was to even the slightest noises of people entering and leaving the building, his eyes now shot open. For a split second he looked glad to see them, then his gaze settled on their linked hands. Santana let go, fast, but it was too late. _Shit_.

"Aunt Olive," he said, suspicious, pulling the lever that raised the chair from the reclining position. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Santana said quickly, marveling, not for the first time, at the absurdity of the whole situation. She'd finally overcome her fear and shame of being gay and was ready to proclaim her relationship with Brittany to the world, yet in her own building she had to make sure to keep it hidden from a crazy old man who thought she was engaged to Rachel. _How the hell is this my life?_ she wondered. It was like some kind of karmic punishment for staying closeted so long.

Brittany, though, to Santana's relief, seemed to have developed the knack for creating elaborate decoy explanations for Pete without any preparation whatsoever. "It's okay, Greta knows about it," she assured him. "In fact, she's paying me. She wants me to give Olive romance lessons."

"Romance lessons?" he asked, skeptical. Santana looked at Brittany, wondering whether she'd gone a step too far even for Pete's high threshold for weirdness.

"Mm-hm," she said. "Yeah, because... Valentine's Day is coming up this week, and it turns out, Olive is kind of an amateur at this stuff."

"It's true, I am," Santana told him, hoping that she was agreeing to a solely imaginary statement, and that there wasn't any kind of veiled reference to herself in it. "I'm hopeless."

Now Pete appeared to be thinking, looking into the middle distance as though he was staring at something the two of them couldn't see. "You know, now that you mention it, I seem to recall that you've _never _been what one would call an expert on romance, have you, Aunt Olive? Do you remember the year you baked Aunt Greta a cake for her birthday?" He chuckled at the memory. "Nineteen forty-eight, I believe it was. I was twelve. You worked all day on that blasted cake... every time I came into the kitchen, you practically took my head off. So nervous that it wouldn't turn out right. But it did... it was beautiful, you recall?"

They listened, actually interested, wanting to see where this story went.

"Only, after working on it so long, you couldn't stand the sight of it anymore, so you didn't eat any. And I was already asleep. Aunt Greta had two pieces, though. She wanted to make sure you knew she loved it. And then about half an hour later, she started getting sick. Got so sick she had to be put in the hospital, remember? Somehow, you poisoned her." He laughed a little, gently smacking his knee, reminiscing.

He continued. "And all you wanted to do was tell her how sorry you were, and take care of her. But they wouldn't let you visit her. Said you weren't family." At this, Pete looked bitter, a rare expression for him. "Even though you'd been together for forty years." He stopped for a minute, then continued. "So you remember what you did, Aunt Olive? You snuck into her room and handcuffed yourself to the bed, then swallowed the key. That way those bastards couldn't make you leave. You stayed with her until she was better."

Santana looked a bit wistful. "I remember," she told him, because why not? It made him happy. And in a weird way, she felt like she actually knew Olive.

Contemplative, he said, "I suppose some would say that _was _romantic. Now Ruby, on the other hand. I'm not sure you're the best one to be giving the lessons." He looked at Brittany sternly. "I seem to recall the first time we were together, after the circus in Des Moines, your exact words were, '_Is it in yet? I can't tell_.'"

Looking just a little contrite, as if she should actually take responsibility for this, Brittany said, "Well... I've grown up a lot since then." In a martyred tone, she added, "That's what happens when you have to raise a kid on your own."

Now Pete appeared chastened. Santana had to admit that the invention of Herman had been a stroke of genius. In a pinch, he always came in handy for a quick guilt trip.

"Have you taken your pills yet today?" Brittany asked, lifting his pill organizer from the tray. She shook it a little. No sound.

"All gone," he said, pleased. "I'm all better now."

"Yeah, I don't think that's how it works when you're _ancient_," Santana told him. "I think you're supposed to get more."

He raised a hand and made a dismissive gesture. "Don't need it. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Brittany told him. "If I make you an appointment at the doctor, will you go with me? I'll pay for it and everything. It'll be like... part of the money I owe you for the beauty parlor."

He seemed unconvinced. "I don't care for doctors. That last fellow they took me to was a terrorist. I heard him talking to Al Qaeda before he came into the exam room."

"I promise I will find you a non-terrorist doctor, okay?" Brittany told him.

Pete sighed. "You always were a stubborn woman, Ruby."

Deciding to quit while they were ahead, they told him good-night and headed up the stairs.

"How is Aunt Greta, by the way?" he hollered after them, as if he'd just thought of it.

Santana paused. "She's fine," she said, puzzled. "Why?"

"I had a dream that Ruby pushed her off the top of the building. It was quite vivid."

Brittany seemed both amused and guilty at the same time. "Well, that was silly, wasn't it?" she assured him. She took Santana's hand again, and they continued up. Once they were out of earshot, she told her in a low, confiding voice, "If I was gonna kill Rachel, that is _not _how I would do it."

* * *

><p>Clasping both her hands in her own, expending the last of her strength to push herself against her, to concentrate the pressure where the clefts of their legs fit so perfectly together, Santana watched as Brittany's face flushed a deep pink and her head tilted back against the pillow. A series of increasingly breathless moans now culminated in silence, and for a few suspended seconds she stopped breathing, her damp hair spread out in a halo around her, her mouth opening and closing the slightest bit, like someone trying to talk in her sleep but not making any sound. Then, finally, the rigidity went out of her, and her bare chest rose and fell as she took in deep, shuddering breaths again, her hips still moving up against Santana, but slower now, almost unconsciously. She opened her eyes with great effort and looked at her.<p>

As if it was a signal, or simply permission to let herself go, she pulled on Brittany's now-limp arms and shoved herself hard against her a few more times, now allowing her own head to fall backward, staring at the ceiling and then closing her eyes as she felt her entire body lock up in ecstasy. The waves pulsed through her, a series of tiny, toe-curling explosions. Because she knew they were alone in the apartment, she gave herself the liberty to make more noise than she usually did. She could hear her own voice as if it came from a great distance, from someone else.

Then, her body going slack, she fell back against the sheets, her head pointing toward the foot of the bed. For a while she lay there, feeling the blood pound in her ears and then gradually slow, letting her breathing return to normal. She could feel the thin sheen of sweat on her skin beginning to dry in the cool air of the bedroom, could feel Brittany's breath tickling the side of her foot. Eventually, Brittany wove her fingertips through hers again and gave a small tug on her arms. Making a supreme effort to pull herself up, Santana disentangled their legs and crawled to the top of the bed, flopping down next to her and burrowing against her shoulder.

"Okay, if I really was giving you romance lessons, then you _definitely _passed that one," Brittany told her as she pulled her closer.

"Thanks," she said, amused. "But I have to say, I don't remember this being quite so exhausting."

Brittany gave her a coy look. "Well, it could be because... you don't work out as much anymore."

Santana pulled back, pretending to be surprised and offended. "Are you saying that I'm getting fat?"

"Nope, not fat," she assured her, smiling. She ran her hand down the slight dip of Santana's waist and along the top of her thigh, appraisingly. "Maybe just a little bit... curvier, is all." She added, "I love it, though."

"Okay, I admit, I do sort of miss the Cheerios training. I try to use the gym on campus, but it's just not the same. Maybe we should sign up for some kind of sport together."

After thinking about this suggestion for a few seconds, Brittany said, "Can it be tennis? Because you get to wear really short skirts, and make those funny sex noises when you hit the ball. I've always wanted to do that."

She laughed a little. "That could be fun, actually."

Then they fell silent for a few minutes. Santana pressed closer against Brittany, cold now, but without the motivation to reach all the way down to the foot of the bed to pull the comforter up around them. Brittany took the hint and wrapped her arms around her. They lay there doing absolutely nothing but breathing each other in, relaxing in the luxury of their own bed, the novelty of its larger size still not gone even after two weeks in their new room.

And this, Santana was forced to admit to herself, was her absolute favorite thing of all; these moments _after _sex, when the urgency was gone, when they could simply lie together without moving. Or sometimes moving, but with the lazy, exploratory gestures of trailing fingertips, of hair being gently stroked, of soft, nuzzling kisses pressed into skin still damp from sweat. How could anything that came before it compare to this? The sex in some ways felt like a warm-up act. And more importantly, how had she never realized it? She thought of all the wasted chances in high school, all the furtive, shameful gropings around dark bedrooms for her clothes, pulling them on before her pulse had even slowed, avoiding Brittany's eyes. She wished she could go back in time and smack some sense into that miserable girl she'd been.

Santana let her eyes drift closed. She felt Brittany pull the butterfly comforter up and over them, and the warmth increased her drowsiness. It was Sunday afternoon, and neither of them had any place to be. Maybe a nap wouldn't be out of order. After all, they'd certainly earned it after all that exertion. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pressing closer against Brittany. Other than the soft hiss of the radiator and the muffled traffic sounds, the room was quiet. By the relaxed way Brittany felt against her, and by the way she was breathing, it seemed likely she was falling asleep too.

But suddenly they were both jarred back to full consciousness by a horrible, angry yowl drifting up from the alley below the window.

Santana jumped a little, then sighed heavily, irritated. "How are those damn cats _always _in heat? I swear we must live in the red light district or something. I walked by one the other day on the street corner and I'm pretty sure she was soliciting customers."

Brittany turned and glanced toward the window, looking sad.

Noticing this, Santana reached over to gently run the back of her hand over her cheek. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Brittany caught the hand and folded it over, delivering a soft, idle kiss to Santana's knuckles, almost as if she wasn't paying attention to what she was doing. Her gaze seemed faraway now. She turned onto her back and stared at the walls, which they'd recently painted a deep violet shade, thus finally erasing all traces of Rachel from the room. It was a tint that was dark enough for Santana, but still colorful enough for Brittany. And it was a good thing they both liked it, since most of the furniture was now flecked with stray drips after they'd gotten into an epic, giggling, shrieking paint fight only moments into the process. Kurt had helped them remove it from their hair, shaking his head in stern disapproval while they traded guilty glances with each other. Even now, a week later, Santana was still finding the occasional blotch behind her ear or between her toes.

Now she watched Brittany's face, concerned, trying to read her. "Obviously it's not _nothing_." She waited, then took a guess. "Are you feeling sorry for those cats? Because I know it sucks, Britt, but they're used to it. They're feral."

"It's not that." Then she admitted, "But I've been leaving food out for 'em anyway. Even though you're not supposed to."

"I know." Santana gave her a secretive smile, with a trace of admiration in it. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell anybody." She propped herself up on her elbow, resting her head on her palm. "What is it, then?"

"It's stupid," Brittany finally said, rolling her eyes a little at herself. With reluctance, she continued. "Today is Lord Tubbington's birthday. I just feel bad that I'm missing it. I never missed one before."

"That's _not _stupid," she assured her. Trying to think of the right thing to say, or at least one of the less-wrong things to say, she asked, "How old is he?"

"Nine. But in cat years that's like... two hundred or something, I think. Really old."

"I'm sorry, sweetie." She sounded genuinely sympathetic. "But I'm sure he doesn't hold it against you."

Brittany turned back onto her side, facing Santana. Hesitatingly, but as if she figured she might as well spill it all now that she'd started, she said, "And I guess... I just sort of miss my mom and dad, too. And my little sister. I've been thinking about 'em a lot lately. I thought maybe I could go home for a visit soon, just for a weekend or something."

Santana was quiet for a few seconds, digesting this. She wasn't sure what to say, and above all, she didn't want her voice to betray any sense of fear. "I was really homesick the first couple of months too. It gets better, I promise."

"It's not quite the same thing, though." Brittany sounded just the slightest bit dismissive. "You're not that close to your family."

Santana waited a few seconds before answering, just above a whisper. "I was homesick for _you_."

Now Brittany met her eyes, understanding. "Oh." She considered this. "I was homesick for you too, you know. Even though I didn't go anywhere. At first, at school everyday, I just pretended you were sick, and that you'd be back tomorrow. But then you never were, so it got harder to trick myself."

She didn't know why, but this information made her feel a confusing mixture of sadness and gratitude. "You never told me that, on the phone."

"I didn't want to make you feel worse," Brittany confided. "I know you were having a hard time." She paused, remembering. "It was weird... sometimes I forgot that you weren't there, and I'd turn around and start to tell you something? And then I'd get sad all over again. You know how they say when you lose a leg, you can still kind of feel it there, even though it's not? It was like that."

"Yeah." Santana gave her a tiny smile, the image one she never would have thought of, but still somehow immediately recognizable. "I know that feeling. But..." She leaned forward and touched her lips to Brittany's in a delicate, reassuring kiss. "Now it's better."

Brittany nodded a little, staring lovingly into her eyes. "Like getting your leg sewn back on."

"Exactly."

Now Brittany stretched and then slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position. She reached over and pulled her bra off the chair near the bed.

"Noo.." Santana groaned, hooking her arm around Brittany's waist and pressing her cheek against her lower back, into the cascade of loose blonde hair that fell against her skin.

Brittany laughed a little. "I'm hungry after all that. Aren't you?"

"We could order in." She tried to sound persuasive, grazing her lips tantalizingly along the ridge of Brittany's hip bone. "If we go to the door like this, I bet they wouldn't even ask for a tip."

"I want to go to the diner. And I'm pretty sure you're craving a cheeseburger right now, even if you won't admit it." She hooked her bra behind her, then turned around, gently unwrapping Santana from her waist. She pushed her back against the pillows and gave her one more firm, concluding kiss. Then she stood and grabbed the rest of her clothes.

Santana lay there and watched her, relinquishing the pleasure of staying in bed all day for the pleasure of watching Brittany get dressed in the long, amber ray of afternoon sunlight that sliced through the crack in the drapes. She raised her arms up above her head in a graceful motion to twist her hair into a bun, looking like one of the dancers in the ballet that Santana was determined to take her to this week, on Valentine's Day. Their earlier plans had fallen through, but this time, nothing would get in the way.

The moment of visual bliss was interrupted by another extended feline howl from the alley, followed by a crescendo of spitting and growling and what sounded like a garbage can being knocked over.

"Hey. I've been thinking..." Santana said, a sudden inspiration striking her. "And I know this is gonna sound crazy coming from me, since you know I'm not exactly an animal-lover. But... what if we got a kitten? Maybe you wouldn't miss home quite so much." _ Maybe you won't go home and decide to stay there_, was the unspoken part of her idea.

"That's so sweet," Brittany said, sounding apologetic. She pulled her underwear on. "But I don't think I could do that. If my cat found out about it, it would be like I was two-timing him. He'd never forgive me."

_Damn it._ "Well, what about something else?" she offered. "Like a goldfish?"

Brittany seemed to be thinking about this. "I had a goldfish once. She was _such _a snob. I just always felt like she was judging me."

Smiling as if she shouldn't have been surprised by this fact, Santana said, "No snobby goldfish, got it."

"Hey, what about a ferret?" Brittany said. "Rhonda offered me a free one, remember? And I already know which one I'd pick. It's my favorite, because it looks just like Robert Pattinson, if Robert Pattinson was a ferret."

Though she wanted to say yes to anything, Santana found she couldn't quite muster up any enthusiasm for this suggestion. "Don't take this the wrong way, Britt, but those things really creep me out. They're like hairy snakes, you know? They smell funny, and they're always crawling up in stuff... you never know when they're gonna pop out at you." She paused, reflecting. "They remind me of everything I hate about penises."

Brittany was amused, but she nodded, agreeing. "Yeah, I guess I can see that." She thought some more, then looked excited. "Ooh, what about a parrot? She sells those, too. We could teach it to talk and everything. And then one day it would witness a murder, and it would be the only one who could give testimony, and we'd get, like, millions out of the book deal."

Narrowing her eyes and looking around the room in consideration, Santana found she couldn't find any major reasons to say no to this. "I could be down with that. I mean, they're loud as hell, but... we already live with the two loudest people on the planet. How much worse could it get?"

"So... yeah?" Brittany raised her eyebrows in anticipation.

"Yeah," Santana said, in a _why the hell not? _tone of voice. "Let's get us a bird."

Brittany dove back onto the bed in giddiness. Laughing, Santana threw her arms around her and pulled her under the bedspread.

* * *

><p>The next afternoon, after school and work, respectively, they knocked on Rhonda's door. "I'm so excited," Brittany said, bouncing on her toes a little. "Lord Tubbington was dropped off at my house by a band of gypsies when he was a kitten, so I've never gone pet-shopping before."<p>

"God, even from this side of the door you can smell her apartment." Santana made a face, wondering if perhaps this was a mistake.

"I like it." Brittany took a deep breath. "It reminds me of my Uncle Chester's farm, only you don't have to worry about stepping in goat poop."

They heard a series of locks being unbolted on the inside, then Rhonda opened the door. Suspicious, she looked over their heads and then leaned out and peered down the hall. "You seen the fuzz roun' here today?"

"The _fuzz_?" Santana gave her an incredulous look. "Who _calls _them that?"

Without answering, Rhonda pulled them inside by the shoulders and then shut the door, locking it again with an elaborate series of bolts. As she went about this process, she asked with her back to them, "What can I be doing for you laa-dies?"

Brittany whispered to Santana, "Okay, I know she's crazy? But that Jamaican accent makes everything she says sound like music."

Rhonda finally finished locking the door and came over to them. "I been meaning to ask you girls one ting. You're together, an't that right? Like boyfriend-girlfriend only girlfriend-girlfriend? That is how it tis?"

They glanced at each other, confused. "Yeah?" Santana said slowly.

"So how does it work when you want to make whoopee? You an't got no mon parts, neither of you." In the stunned silence, she continued. "You an't got no crank shaft. No bratwurst. No..."

"Yeah, we know what you're talking about!" Santana said, holding up a hand to cut her off.

"So what you put up in there?"

Santana looked at Brittany again, as if begging for help, but for once, Brittany was rendered speechless too. This was something they'd never been confronted with before. Not homophobia, but simple, blunt curiosity. She tried to think of something diplomatic to say. "There are ways..." She stopped, then started again. "There are certain things..." Then she gave up. "You know what, we'll get you some pamphlets or something."

Rhonda looked disappointed. A whitish-gray bird flew over and landed on her shoulder, repeating the word, "_Bratwurst_."

"But for now," Brittany said, finding her voice again. "The reason we're here today is because we want to buy something from you."

Rhonda nodded once. "Say no mo-ar. I got just what you want." She went over to a bookshelf and pulled down a giant dictionary, which turned out to be hollow inside. From it she took a small clear baggie of brittle, dried marijuana leaves and brought it over, holding it up in front of them.

"No, not that," Santana said with impatience, shaking her head. But then, as if slightly reconsidering, she reached up and fingered the bag, tempted. "How much is this?" Brittany nudged her. "No," Santana repeated firmly, as if denying herself. "Not today. Actually, we were hoping... to buy one of your birds." She jerked her leg, trying to detach the ferret that was climbing up it.

"You want to buy one of my babies?" Rhonda reached up and stroked the gray parrot on her shoulder.

"Aren't they for sale?"

"They are for sale. Just that nobody never bought one befo-ar."

The ferret was up to Santana's thigh now. "Brittany," she said helplessly.

Brittany finally noticed and came to her rescue, pulling the thing off of her and draping it around her own neck. "It's okay, Robert," she said in a consoling tone. "Santana's just not a Twilight fan."

Santana let her eyes scan the crowded, eccentrically-messy living room. This apartment was like a carbon copy of their own it its layout, but it was stuffed with cages and perches, and the racket from the birds was enough to make anyone feel crazy. Santana noticed a green parrot in a cage over in the corner. Unlike the others, this one seemed to be quieter. It was also the only one that was locked up. She went over toward it. "What about this one?"

"That one?" Rhonda looked over. "You can have that one for half price. He is not so smart. Sometimes he knocks himself goofy flying into the mirror."

Brittany followed her, peering in at the bird.

"Hello," he told her, like an orphan trying to make a good first impression on prospective parents.

"Hi," Brittany said back. "What's your name?"

"Hello," he said again.

"Well, my name's Brittany. And I bet you're a lot smarter than people think you are. I know how it feels to be called dumb. And I promise if you come to live with us, we'll never let anyone call you that."

The bird seemed to consider this for a second. "Hello."

"Do you want to look at some of the other ones?" Santana asked.

"No," Brittany said firmly. "I want this one. I think he wants us to rescue him."

Santana look at the parrot, which had jumped down onto the floor of the cage and appeared to be pecking at his own poop. "Okay," she said, reserving judgment. "The green one it is, then." She took out the money.

Happy, Brittany gave her a quick, grateful kiss. "Thank you," she whispered.

They both turned their heads slightly to see Rhonda watching them with fascinated scrutiny, as if she was studying for an exam on lesbian behavior.

Back at home, they spent a few hours playing around with the bird, trying to teach it some choice new phrases, which mostly included insults from Santana about everyone who'd pissed her off in the last year, mixed in with cartoon taglines from Brittany. Other than the favored "Hello," the only phrases it seemed to know already were "You are NOT the father," and "You ARE the father." Apparently Rhonda spent a lot of time watching Maury. They didn't have much luck in getting him to repeat what they taught him, but Brittany was convinced the bird was remembering more than he let on, and would surprise them eventually with his secret genius.

With little progress made, Santana was the first one to grow bored, and she settled down to her homework on the floor of the living room, spreading her materials out in front of her. Brittany filmed the parrot, thinking that maybe he would perform better if he felt like a reality star.

Arriving home early without Rachel, Kurt seemed less than thrilled by the new addition. "Shouldn't this have been something we all talked about? You can't just get a pet without telling your roommates. It affects everyone who lives here."

Santana gave him an irritated look. "Well, the same could be said for that grandpa-scented cologne you wear, and I don't recall being consulted about _that_."

He sighed and sat down on the couch, not bothering to continue the argument. Clearly he'd learned that some battles weren't worth it.

For an hour or so, the two of them worked on their respective homework assignments while Brittany continued to work with the bird. "He has total stage presence," she announced, still looking through the camera. "I think he's gonna be a big star someday."

Santana smiled, but she tried to keep concentrating on her history project, which was pissing her off with its requirement for sources cited on index cards. Who the hell still used index cards? What era was this? "This assignment blows," she muttered to herself.

"You think yours is bad?" Kurt asked, looking up from his script. "Try being expected to inject freshness and originality into a role that's been performed literally hundreds, if not thousands, of times."

"You know what, I am so sick of hearing you bitch about this," she told him. "If you're so bored, why don't you just write your own damn musical?"

"Right," he said in a sardonic tone. "That seems likely to happen, doesn't it?"

"Why not?" Brittany piped up, lowering her camera to look at him. "I think you'd be awesome at it."

"What would _I _write a musical about?"

"What does _anybody _write one about?" Santana said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Take some loud obnoxious characters who talk way more than they need to, and then have them randomly burst into song a few times. Boom, you're in business."

Brittany was in agreement. "Yeah, and you can cast all of us in it!"

Kurt pondered this, contemplative. He actually seemed to be giving the idea some serious consideration. "I never really thought about it before."

"Well, you should," Brittany insisted. "Because I bet you'd write a really good one. And... I could help if you want," she offered.

He smiled at her. "Thanks, Brittany."

"Hey, it was _my _idea." Santana nudged his foot, offended. He ignored her.

Suddenly they heard the front door opened, then quickly closed, and Rachel burst into the living room, flushed and out of breath. "Brittany!" She came over to her, excited. "I need to talk to you. The most amazing thing happened today... and such perfect timing, too." She started unbuttoning her coat, her eyes glowing. "You'll never guess."

Brittany, of course, couldn't let this challenge go without attempting it. "Beanie Babies are making a comeback?"

"What?" Rachel laid her coat over the back of the armchair, looking distracted. "No."

"They're finally doing a sequel to _From Justin to Kelly_?"

"_No_." She considered this. "Although... I'm with you on that one, it's long overdue."

"Um..." Brittany cast her eyes around the room for ideas. "Doctors have discovered a way to let you prolong that tingling funny-bone sensation for hours?"

Impatient, she snapped, "Okay, Brittany, enough guessing!" while holding up her hand in a _stop _gesture. Then she tried to modulate her voice, forcing it back into pleasant tones again. "Are you ready for this?" She sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of her and put her hands on Brittany's knees. "It's Allison. I think she has a crush on you." She waited, expectantly, as if everyone should be thrilled about this news.

"Whoa, _what_?" Santana asked, turning now, her attention caught. "Allison is gay?"

"I... I don't know!" Rachel said, with a lift of her shoulders. "I guess so. She was asking about Brittany all day long, and she even wanted her number. She also gave me hers, in a sealed envelope, which I was told to hand over to you without opening... instructions she will be pleased to know I have obeyed to the letter." She took out the envelope and passed it to Brittany, then looked worried. "You'll tell her, won't you?"

Brittany examined the envelope, perplexed and a little concerned, but she didn't open it. "What does she want?"

"Honestly, I can only assume she's interested in you. You should call her!"

Brittany looked up from the envelope to stare at Rachel with incredulity. "Except... there's kind of a problem here. Which is that I'm... taken?" She gestured over toward Santana.

"Well, of course I'm aware of that." Rachel was making every effort to sound reasonable. "I'm not saying you have to sleep with her! Maybe, just... I don't know, hang out with her. Flirt a little bit. Possibly some light making out."

"I can not even believe you," Santana said, disgusted. "You're seriously trying to whore Brittany out for some stupid little part in a freshman revue?"

"It's not a _little _part, it's the lead." Then, realizing too late that this wasn't the point in the sentence she should be disputing, she added hastily, "And I'm not whoring her out! I'm just asking her to possibly consider... taking one for the team."

"What _team_?" Santana demanded.

"Santana, can't you see that my inevitable stardom is a good thing for all of us?"

"How so?" Kurt wondered.

Rachel threw him a betrayed glance, then she paused, seeming a bit stumped. Finally, as if clutching at the idea out of desperation, she said to Brittany, "When I'm rich and famous, I'll buy you a pony!"

It was obvious that Brittany's first instinct was to reject this absurdity, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do so. Sheepishly, with a tone of regret, she glanced at Santana and muttered, "I do sort of want a pony."

"See?" Rachel gave her leg a brisk pat in encouragement. "That's the spirit!"

"Brittany, you don't have to listen to this," Santana told her. "She's _insane_. Last semester, she was legit thinking about donating one of her kidneys to some bigshot casting director who needed a transplant."

"That would have been an act of charity, pure and simple!" Rachel said in her own defense. "And if, in the future, he _happened _to consider me for roles out of a sense of gratitude for saving his life, then that would have been nothing more than a... a lovely bonus." She muttered, "Anyway, I wasn't a match."

Brittany rolled her eyes, still not opening the envelope.

Now Rachel grasped her hands, a pleading expression on her face. "Look, just... just think about it, all right? That's all I'm asking. This part means _everything _to me." She went on. "And though I'm virtually guaranteed to get it, since, let's be honest, nobody else comes anywhere close to my prior eminence in the role... still, every little bit helps. This could really get Allison on my side before the auditions Thursday. Please?"

Shaking her head a little in exasperation, Brittany said, "Fine. I'll think about it."

"Thank you. I assure you, you will be _amply _rewarded in the future." Standing up with a self-congratulatory air for a job well done, Rachel now finally noticed the new cage near the window. "Oh! What do we have here?" Approaching closer, she said in a loud, condescending voice, "Hellooo, birdy!"

"Hello," the parrot repeated back to her.

"That's our new pet," Brittany told her. "Santana got him for me for Valentine's Day. His name is Captain Montague Featherworth. But you can call him Monty for short."

"Oh... how fun!" she said, clapping her hands a little. "I've always wanted one of these. I had one for a few days when I was nine, but my dads had to take him away because they were afraid his imperfect pitch would be a bad vocal influence on me." Looking toward the bird, she went on, excited. "I know exactly what I want to teach him to say. Let's start with something simple." She peered into the cage and said with emphasis, "_The Tony Award goes to... Miss Rachel Berry_."

The bird regarded her quizzically. "Hello."

"No, no," she said with a little laugh, trying to keep her patience, humoring the bird. "Why don't we try that again?" For her second attempt, she repeated more slowly, "_The Tony Award goes to... Miss Rachel Berry_."

Now the bird hung upside down on his perch, staring at her, but not responding at all.

"To-ny!" she enunciated loudly.

Still no response. Frustrated, Rachel turned, asking in a low, discreet voice, "Brittany, is there any chance you may have chosen a mentally challenged parrot by mistake?"

"Rachel, that's mean. He can hear you, you know. How would you like it if I said something like that about _Finn_?" She stressed the last word in a peculiar way.

"Finn is a terrible lay."

Rachel spun around, stunned, staring into the parrot's cage. She waited a beat, as if thinking she must have heard wrong. "What did you say?"

"Hello," the bird told her, innocently.

"No no no, not that!" She shook her head, adamant. "_After _that!" Making an effort to stay calm, she seemed to be trying to reason with him. "Did... did you say something about _Finn_?"

Obligingly, the parrot made a prefatory cawing sound, then repeated, "Finn is a terrible lay." He hung upside down again, pleased with himself.

Rachel's eyes grew big with dismayed realization. "That's what I thought you said!"

She faced the room again, where Kurt, Brittany, and Santana were all carefully avoiding eye contact with each other, ostensibly absorbed in their individual tasks. "Who taught him to say that?" she demanded.

For a minute there was no response but silence. Then, in a calm, thoughtful tone, Brittany suggested, "Maybe it's not that he's mentally challenged, maybe he's psychic. Some parrots are, you know. I saw it on Animal Planet." She shrugged. "Maybe he's just reading your thoughts."

"Wow, Berry, that is harsh," Santana said, looking up from her homework. "I mean, it's totally true, I can attest to that. But still... he _is _your boyfriend."

"That's ridiculous, and you know it!" Rachel said, incensed. "I would never think anything like that about Finn."

At the mention of the name, the parrot now chimed in with, "Finn has man jugs."

Gasping in shock, Rachel turned to stare at the bird again, open-mouthed. The room behind her was silent, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of barely contained hilarity. Kurt had his lips pressed tightly together, and he stared at the floor, avoiding looking in Rachel's direction. Brittany pretended there was a fascinating new feature she'd just discovered on her camera. Santana shuffled her index cards, feigning indifference.

Finally, Rachel spun around to face the three of them again, her expression radiating stern judgment. "You are all horrible, horrible people!" she said, pointing her finger at them. "I don't believe in a literal hell, but if I did, you would _all _be going there!" Trying to maintain her dignity, she flounced out of the room, her skirt swishing around her knees, and a few seconds later they heard her bedroom door slam. Kurt collapsed into the sofa cushions, looking like he was having a seizure.

Santana looked at Brittany, who was biting her lip, her eyes shining with amusement as she finally abandoned the useless fiddling with her camera.

"Okay, you were right," Santana said, her dimples betraying her devilish smirk. "He is _definitely _a secret genius."

* * *

><p>Thursday evening, Santana brushed on eye shadow, then lowered her hand and examined the result. She still wasn't quite sure about what she'd chosen to wear tonight, but she had to admit, the tones of the makeup suited her pretty damn well. She began going through lipsticks, trying to find an exact match for the dress. Everything about this date was going to be perfect. Last year, Valentine's Day had been great, no denying it, but this one would be even better. How could it not be, with New York City at their beck and call? They had dinner reservations at a restaurant that would probably cost an entire week's paycheck, but it would be worth it. She'd bought new tickets to the ballet, which was performing Romeo and Juliet tonight in honor of the holiday. And after that, who knew? They could play it by ear, find some suitably romantic spontaneous thing to do. Of course, it was possible that planning for spontaneity sort of defeated the purpose, but it didn't matter. No matter what they ended up doing, it would be right.<p>

The day had already been perfect. Actually, if she was going to be technical about it, their Valentine's Day had begun last night, at work. Because she had tonight off (annoying to give Millie one of her shifts, but worth it to be with Brittany), she'd taken requests for all the sappy love songs one day early. In _her _mind, of course, she was singing them all to Brittany, who sat at a table by herself, sipping a cherub's cup cocktail.

At the end of the evening, just before closing, she'd taken a deep breath to calm her nerves, then dedicated her own song. "This one is for _my _girlfriend, who I love more than anyone in the world." She'd paused, adding with a secretive smile. "There is no one like her, anywhere." To the simple accompaniment of piano and guitar, she'd done Vonda Shepard's version of _I Only Want to Be With You_. And yes, maybe she'd cried a little. Maybe Brittany had too, gazing up at her from the crowd. But it was dark in there... probably no one had noticed.

And already today, they'd been making the most of the holiday from the moment they woke up. The morning had started out with gentle, lazy lovemaking, the kind that seemed to make time itself slow down to fit their own unhurried rhythm. Though of course, when they'd finally emerged from their absorption in each other to check the clock, they'd found to their chagrin that time actually _hadn't _slowed down, and that if they didn't rush, they would both be late; Santana for class, Brittany for dogwalking rounds.

After her last class of the day, Santana had emerged from the lecture hall and started toward the stairs, only to be approached by a busty blonde woman in an elaborate fake nurse's uniform. Her breasts strained against the skimpy white cotton dress, which was unbuttoned at the top, and she even wore a stethoscope and a white cap, the kind that real nurses hadn't worn in probably fifty years. She carried a huge red box of candy with two heart-shaped balloons trailing up from it.

"Santana Lopez?" she asked around her chewing gum, sounding bored.

Santana glanced about the hall, as if thinking the woman must mean some other Santana Lopez. Wondering if she should deny it, she nevertheless said, "Yes?" in a confused voice.

The nurse passed over the candy, took a few steps back, and then began singing, in what sounded like a New Jersey accent, "_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are gray. You'll nevah know deah, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."_

Mortified, but still oddly delighted, Santana tried to ignore the amused stares of other students moving down the hallway.

"That was weird," the nurse said, taking a slip of paper from her breast pocket. "I nevah got asked to sing that befoah." She looked at the paper, squinting to make sure it was the right one, then read, "This sexy-sing-a-gram was sent to you by Brittany, who wants you to know that you that are the best goilfriend in the world, and that she loves you and you are awesome." The nurse paused, puzzled, then continued. "She also wants me to tell you not to be scared because I'm not a real nurse, so I'm not gonna give you a shot or anything like that, unless you want me to, but she's pretty sure you're not into that kind of stuff." She stopped, looking up with an air of apology. "I think they musta wrote it down wrong at the office."

Santana bit her lip a little, trying to restrain the grin on her face. "No, actually, that... sounds about right," she said.

She gave the woman a tip, and then, as she walked away, Santana tilted her head a bit to get a good parting view of her ass. Brittany was paying for this, after all. She wanted to make sure she got her money's worth.

When Brittany met her at the subway station, she looked both pleased with herself and a bit sheepish. She took the box of candy from Santana to carry it for her. "Did you like your sexy nurse?" she asked.

"I did," Santana said, kissing her. "But I bet _you _would have looked even better in that outfit."

She smiled a little, flirtatiously. "Maybe next year."

When they got back to the building, they found a florist deliveryman in the downstairs hall, arguing loudly with Pete. "Sir, I'm just trying to do my job!"

"I'm telling you right now, there's no one named Brittany in this building. I know everyone who lives here! I've known them all my life! So why don't you take that bouquet and get lost. You think I don't know it's bugged? I can see the mike from here!"

"Hi," Brittany said, intervening. "Um, I think those are for me."

"You Brittany Pierce?"

"Yeah." She looked down at Pete, explaining, "It's my stage name."

He crossed his arms over his chest, disapproving. "Well, it's not a very good one."

She signed for the flowers, and he handed them over. She took a huge whiff of their fragrance, looking at Santana over the top, thrilled. "These are beautiful." Santana watched her, happy. She'd chosen spring flowers, sunny, cheerful kinds like daisies, daffodils, and bluebells, even though they were out of season. She'd had to pay more for them, but it was worth it. They suited Brittany's personality.

Suddenly, Pete noticed the deliveryman's name tag, which had been hidden behind the bouquet. His eyes grew wide, and he tugged at Brittany's arm, whispering in a frantic, hoarse voice, "Ruby, look! It's him! It's Herman!"

They both glanced at the guy's shirt, and Pete was right. His name was Herman. It didn't seem to occur to him, however, that this Herman was black.

"Oh my God, you're right," Brittany said. "It _is _him. It's your son."

The man looked at Brittany like she was crazy. "Lady, what the hell are you talkin' about?"

Covertly, Santana muttered to him, "Just play along and I'll give you fifty bucks."

He stared at her, then at Brittany, obviously thinking them both out of their minds. But fifty bucks was fifty bucks. He looked at Pete, raising his eyebrows in a hopeful way. "Daddy?"

"Son!" Pete called, holding out his arms. Herman collapsed into them, letting himself be embraced.

Brittany raised a hand to her heart, looking on proudly. There seemed to be actual tears in her eyes. "I've just been waiting for this day for so long," she said.

Santana laughed and grabbed her from the side, hugging her while they both watched the happy reunion.

Upstairs, they'd begun their preparations for their night out. After making her wait for a mysterious twenty minutes in their bedroom, Brittany came and got Santana, wrapping her arms around her from behind and covering her eyes with her hands. "Okay, now walk."

Giggling, Santana allowed Brittany to guide her, hoping she wouldn't let her stub her toe on something. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," Brittany taunted her.

After a few paces, she felt herself being turned, then they stopped. "Okay, you ready?" Brittany lowered her hands.

Santana gasped, taking in the sight. The bathroom had been turned into a showcase for romance. There were rose petals floating in the steaming bath water, and a bottle of champagne sat angled in a bucket of ice. All around the room, including on the sink counter and the rim of the bathtub, tiny candles flickered. It looked like something from an episode of The Bachelor, only without the skankiness.

"Britt, this is amazing," she breathed in awe.

"I thought this would be more fun than a shower," she said coyly.

And it had certainly proved to be. Even now, putting her makeup on, Santana was standing on a sopping wet towel, laid down in an attempt to soak up the copious amount of water that had sloshed out in the course of all the fun they'd had. They'd stayed in the bathtub as long as possible, drinking the champagne and letting the candles gutter down. Finally, they'd been forced to get out due to a combination of the water turning cold and Kurt pounding on the door, lecturing, "You're not the only ones who live here!"

Finishing up her makeup, Santana blotted her lipstick, checking the mirror one last time. Her reflection was both reassuring and unnerving. She looked happy... maybe too happy. It couldn't last, could it? But no. Tonight was _not _the night to entertain those kinds of thoughts. She lifted her chin at her reflection a bit, as if to say, _Nice try_.

Brittany now appeared in the doorway. "Santana, when do you think..." She cut her own words off, surprised, and stared. "Wow," she said under her breath. "Look at you."

Turning toward her, Santana looked down at herself, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "What do you think?"

"I think... I've never seen you wear pink before." Brittany's eyes were still wide.

"Yeah, I know. I just thought, I don't know, I'd try something different." She waited, growing even more uncomfortable. "I still have time to change."

"Are you kidding? You look drop-dead gorgeous. The only way that dress is coming off is tonight, when we get back, and _I_ take it off."

Relieved, Santana smiled. "Speaking of different... since when do you wear black?"

"I know, right? It's like opposite-day." She turned in a circle to model the dress. "I thought it made me look all grown-up and sophisticated. Do you like it?"

There were no words that could come close to expressing just how _much _she liked it. "You look beautiful," she said softly. "So beautiful."

Even though they still had a bit of time to spare, they decided to leave early so that they wouldn't have to rush. Kurt seemed to have the same idea. He was just putting his coat on as they came into the front entry.

"Ladies," he said, giving their ensembles a practiced, summing-up gaze. "It's a bit risky, going outside your usual styles, but I have to say you both look smashing."

"You do too," Brittany told him. "You're gonna have the best first date ever. Do you have your itinerary?"

They both looked at her, mildly astonished.

"What?" she asked. "I know some big words. You want to hear another one? _Homogeneous_. It means a _very smart gay person_." She gave one emphatic nod, proud of herself.

Kurt started to reply, but before he could say anything, Rachel came through the front door. The auditions for the female parts in the revue had been today, which meant she'd had to stay late to get the results. Kurt's try-out was scheduled for tomorrow, though you wouldn't know it to look at him. He didn't much seem to care whether he reprised his Officer Krupke or not.

They all watched her, curious. She stared at the floor, avoiding meeting their eyes, and slowly began taking her coat off to hang in the closet.

"Well?" Santana asked when she still hadn't said anything. "Let's hear it. Do we get to look forward to mocking your horrid Puerto Rican accent again?"

Rachel closed the closet door, finally turning to look at them. The expression on her face was ravaged. Obviously she'd been crying. They all seemed a bit taken aback.

"No," she said. "Polly Lin got the lead."

"So... what did you get?" Kurt asked, almost as if he dreaded the answer.

"I didn't get anything." Her voice was oddly expressionless, like someone hypnotized. "I'm Polly's understudy."

"_What_?" Santana said, shocked. Then, off of Brittany's look, she shrugged a little. "I mean, it serves you right, for being so arrogant about it." But she immediately regretted this, too.

Rachel nodded just the slightest bit, as if she was expecting this type of remark, or possibly as if she even agreed with it. Her jaw muscle worked slightly, like she was gritting her teeth together, maybe trying not to cry.

"Rachel..." Kurt began, but she stopped him.

"You guys all look amazing," she said, like a bad actress reading a script. "I hope you have a great night." With that, she took off toward the kitchen, ducking her head a little to hide the tears, as if that would fool anybody.

They all stared after her, not sure what to do. "I never called that Allison girl," Brittany said, regretful. "I meant to, I just kept forgetting."

"It's not your fault," Santana told her. "That was a ridiculous thing to ask, anyway."

Kurt sighed, looking weary. "Well, that's that, I guess. I have to cancel. So much for my chance with Elijah."

"What?" Brittany said. "Kurt, no. You can't cancel on someone on Valentine's Day. It's like a law or something."

"I can't just leave her here alone like this."

"Yes you can," Santana told him. "Because you know what, this may be the first time she gets a reality check, but it sure as hell isn't gonna be the last time. You can't just cancel your plans every time she needs you to hold her hand and be her life coach. That isn't fair to you. You've been lusting after this guy _forever_."

He seemed to be considering. He wanted to give in.

"Besides," Santana continued, "If anyone should be dealing with this mess, it's Finn."

"Finn has man jugs," the parrot piped up from the living room.

"You stay out of this!" Santana said, holding her finger up. The bird immediately ruffled its feathers and quieted down. Apparently he had already learned not to mess with Santana.

"Yeah, what's going on with them, anyway?" Brittany wondered. "He didn't even send any flowers or anything. Do you think he forgot what day it is?"

"I don't know," Kurt said in a low voice, glancing toward the kitchen. "Every time I try to ask him about it, he changes the subject. I get the feeling there's trouble in paradise."

"Well, whatever," Santana said, trying to absolve him of responsibility. "There's only so much you can do. And if you don't leave right now? I'm gonna call Elijah and tell him about those photoshopped wedding pictures you already made of the two of you at Cannes."

He gave her a level, appraising stare. "You would actually do that, wouldn't you?"

"She _so _would," Brittany assured him.

He sighed again, giving in. "Fine. You're probably right. I have my own life to live, after all. Rachel will just have to learn how to... self-soothe. If it works for fussy infants, it'll work for her."

But even with this determination, they practically had to force him through the door, closing it behind him before he could be hit with another stab of guilt and change his mind.

Santana helped Brittany into her coat, silent. She put her own on, taking her time with the buttons, delaying a little.

"You ready?" Brittany finally asked.

She started to say yes, found she couldn't do it, pressed her lips together. "You know what, if I could just have like, two minutes. I'll be right back, I swear."

As if she'd already been expecting this, Brittany gave her an understanding look. "Go ahead."

Grateful for the simplicity of this permission, Santana headed toward the kitchen. When she got there, though, she discovered that it was empty. Confused, she let her eyes travel over the small space again. She could have sworn she'd seen her come in here. Then she felt the cold draft, and noticed the window to the balcony was open.

She walked over to it and leaned down, putting her hands on the sill and sticking her head out. Rachel was standing against the railing, staring across the alley at the side of the building next to theirs. She didn't appear to be seeing it, however. Her face was closed-off, her gaze turned inward.

"You're not gonna jump, are you?" Santana asked her. "Because if you are, you should go up to the roof. More chance of making the evening news that way. I know you'd like that."

Without turning her head or changing her expression, she said quietly, "Santana, I'm really not in the mood. Please just leave me alone."

Santana gave a heavy sigh. Even though there was nothing more she wanted in the world than to obey that request, she climbed through the window and emerged onto the balcony instead. "Look, it was _one _audition. Are you gonna let this make you spiral into some kind of melodramatic woe-is-me self-doubting phase? Because that sounds exhausting." She added, "For _me_."

Her voice almost inaudible, Rachel said numbly, "I just really thought I had it."

"So you'll get the next one. It's not that big a deal."

Now there were fresh tears in her eyes. "It was to me."

_Shit_, Santana thought. _Why am I so bad at this?_ She felt like she was making things worse. Inwardly, she cursed Kurt for leaving, forgetting that she'd practically forced him to. But this was _his _job, damn it. She had no idea what she was doing.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she said after a few seconds, trying to sound less impatient. "I shouldn't have been such a bitch to Allison the other night. I thought I was helping."

But Rachel shook her head a little, brushing off the notion. "It wouldn't have made any difference. She just... doesn't like me. No matter what I do." She paused, adding with a slightly bitter tone, "I should be used to it by now. I don't think I make a good first impression. I've been told that my personality is off-putting and abrasive."

Even though this was pretty much true, and nobody knew it better than she did, Santana was surprised to find that she felt a weird little surge of protectiveness. "So what?" she said. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly a natural charmer, either. You can't pretend to be someone you're not just to get people to like you." She considered, then said, "But in this case, _liking _has nothing to do with it. You know good and well why you didn't get that part. It's because that stuck-up Shakespeare-spouting ice princess is afraid of you. She knows you're a threat. That's all there is to it."

Rachel was quiet for a minute. "I used to think that was true. Whenever someone tried to hold me back, I chalked it up to jealousy... jealousy of my enormous talent and unbridled ambition. But lately... I'm not so sure anymore." She finally turned her head, making eye contact for the first time since Santana had joined her on the balcony. Earnestly, she said, "There are _so many _talented people here. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that there could be so many. Not just at NYADA, but at Tisch, at Julliard... the theater departments at NYU and Columbia... Even people who aren't in school, the ones who just go to auditions, some of them are _amazing_. You know, I always thought that all I had to do was get here, and the hard part would be over. I thought if I could just _make it _to New York City, just get into one of these schools, then it would be all downhill from there."

"Well, that was stupid," Santana told her.

Rachel rolled her eyes a little at the bluntness of this, but she seemed to agree, saying, "Apparently."

"Okay, yeah, there's a shitload of talented theater people in the city, big deal," Santana said. "This shouldn't be breaking news. Broadway is like the twinkle-toes fairydust capital of the world. But you know what, in five years most of those wannabes are gonna be back in their sad one-Wal-Mart towns, selling milkshakes or used cars, stealing twenty bucks from mom's purse to buy OxyContin from the veterans at the bus station." She paused, then said, "And _you'll_ still be here."

"You don't understand, Santana. For my entire life, I've been so certain that I'm meant to do this. I've been so convinced that I'm not like other people, even other talented people... that I have something _special_. There was never any doubt in my mind. But now I'm here, and I see these other people all around me, and they all think the exact same thing. Don't you see? We can't _all _be right. For the first time in my life I'm starting to wonder... what if I don't have anything special? What if I'm wrong?" The expression on her face now was one of unadorned terror. It was painful to look at.

Santana stared at her, and even though every instinct she possessed urged her away from it, she forced herself to be honest. "You're not." She waited a few seconds, then raised her eyebrows for emphasis. "Okay? You're _not wrong_."

Clearly, Rachel wanted to believe this. She seemed to be weighing the sincerity of it and considering the source at the same time.

"And if you think_ I _would say something like that just to make you feel better?" Santana went on. "Then you really don't know me as well as I thought you did."

Accepting the obvious truth of this, Rachel now gave her a grateful look. Knowing how miserable these types of conversations made Santana, she seemed to be trying her best to keep the waterworks under control, to not get too emotional. "Thank you," she whispered.

Now Santana turned away to face out over the balcony rail. Too much eye contact made her nervous. And Rachel had that _I'm going to hug you now _look on her face. The only way to dissuade her was to refuse to acknowledge it. "You know," she said, trying to lighten the tone, "You should probably look at this as a blessing in disguise. I mean, did you really want to play Maria to some other bitch's cheap, knock-off Anita? Because I'm telling you, it would have been a massive disappointment. Not to flatter myself, but I set that bar pretty damn high."

Smiling a little in agreement, Rachel said, "We _were _amazing, weren't we?"

"Are you kidding? We tore that show a new one. I don't even know why those boys bothered showing up... our scenes owned that half-assed production."

"It's true." She stared into the past with fond nostalgia. As if confiding a secret, she said, "I know it sounds crazy, after dreaming so long about getting here... but sometimes I really miss high school. Everything was so much simpler."

Santana nodded a little, staring down into the street. In agreement, she said quietly, "Yeah."

"Santana?" They both turned to find Brittany's head in the window. "It's getting late," she said pointedly.

"You'd better go," Rachel said, releasing her. "You don't want to miss the ballet again. I've heard their Romeo and Juliet is outstanding."

"Are you gonna be okay?" Santana asked her.

"Of course." She seemed to be making a massive effort to sound like herself. The strain was obvious. "I think I'll probably just... eat a pint of non-dairy ice cream and listen to my Best of Barbra mix, and then take a bubble bath and turn in early. My dads wanted me to call them after the audition, but... maybe tomorrow. I know how disappointed they'll be. In our house, _understudy _was a dirty word."

"Yeah, listen, about Polly," Santana said. "Mi abuela had this recipe for a poison that induces a temporary coma. The survival rate is, like, ninety-five percent so..." She shrugged a little. "Just something to think about."

Amused, Rachel said, "_Go_."

Santana moved toward the window, giving her shoulder an awkward squeeze on the way past. It was the most she could manage. "Don't stay out here too long."

"I won't."

She ducked inside, Brittany helping her over the sill. They both glanced back out at the balcony. Rachel was once again gazing across the alley, looking only slightly less pitiful than she had earlier. She had her arms wrapped around herself, whether against the cold or just impending loneliness, it was hard to tell.

"Come on," Santana said, putting her arm around Brittany. Troubled, Brittany finally looked away from the window. They left.

Out on the sidewalk, they were unusually quiet. Santana sneaked a covert glance up at the building as they went past to make sure the balcony was empty.

"It's so nice out," Brittany said into the silence, making an attempt at getting their mood back on track. "It feels more like St. Patrick's Day than Valentine's Day."

Doing her part, Santana responded, "See? Global warming's not so bad. Those polar bears need to get over themselves." But the words sounded a little hollow, like she was playing the role of Santana Lopez.

They neared the end of the block, and Brittany slowed, then stopped. The street was clear for them to cross, so that wasn't why she was motionless. She stared down at her feet, contemplative. Santana watched her with curiosity. After what looked like an inner debate, Brittany said, ""I don't think we should go."

"What?" She looked at her, surprised. "Brittany, this is the second time I've bought these tickets."

"I know, but..." She looked back toward their building, trying to think of what to say. "I think you'd end up feeling bad if we went."

Santana started to argue this point, but then wondered if Brittany was right. She usually was. In general, she was better at predicting Santana's reactions to things than she herself was.

"And I think I would too," Brittany admitted. "She looked really sad."

Santana sighed, staring down at the pavement. "But _Kurt _got to leave," she said. It came out as a whine.

"Yeah, but... even though he's gay, Kurt is still a boy. Sometimes boys just don't get it. And I mean, we _did _kind of blackmail him."

Petulant, Santana crossed her arms. "This was supposed to be our big night, though."

"I know, but if you think about it, we've already had such an incredible week. We got Monty. And you sang me that song that made me cry... and there was a sexy nurse, and flower petals in the bathtub. We can't be too greedy. Besides, no one should be alone on Valentine's Day."

"I think that's Christmas," Santana said wryly. But then she rallied herself. "Okay, I know, you're right. And... as cheesy as it sounds..." She stopped, as if she couldn't believe she was about to say these words. "If it was the other way around, she wouldn't leave."

"Really?" Brittany asked, looking just the tiniest bit amused by this candor.

"_Yeah_," Santana said grudgingly, rolling her eyes in embarrassment. She stared at the sidewalk, then made up her mind. "All right. We'll go another night. It's not like Lincoln Center is going anywhere."

Brittany gazed at her, admiring. Even though she seemed to know that what she was about to say would make Santana uncomfortable, she couldn't help herself. "You're a really good person, you know. I wish you didn't try to hide it so much."

"I'm _not _a good person," she said, the denial automatic.

"Yes you are," Brittany insisted. "I feel so sorry for people who aren't your friends."

She laughed a little. "You've got it backwards. You should feel sorry for the people aren't _your _friends. They're the ones who need pity."

"_Everyone _is my friend, though. Except for that guy on the subway who tries to make me thumb wrestle with him. He freaks me out." She paused, considering. "It's like, last semester in science class? We studied the light spectrum. And most of the colors you can see with the naked eye. They just shine on everything, you know? That's like me. But then there's the part that not just everyone can see. Like ultraviolet light. You have to have special equipment, but it's totally worth it to go to the trouble, because it's awesome. And it makes your teeth glow, if you have a blacklight. That's like _you_. You're ultraviolet."

Santana gave this some thought, obviously pleased. "That is the weirdest, sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me." She narrowed her eyes a little, a new angle occurring to her. "But, wait... doesn't ultraviolet light cause cancer?"

Brittany pondered on this, bemused. "I'm still trying to figure out how to do metaphors," she conceded. "I'll keep working on it."

Santana laughed again, and stood up on her tiptoes for a kiss. She rested her hands on Brittany's shoulders, and Brittany pulled her in closer by the waist, pressing against her. It probably wasn't the best idea to do this on a sidewalk in Brooklyn after dark, but at the moment, they didn't seem to care.

After a long, loving kiss, Santana leaned her head briefly against Brittany's chest, then raised her head up again. With a sigh of relinquishment, she said, "Okay. Let's do this thing."

Ten minutes later, they were back in the building, Brittany carrying two pizza boxes from the place across the street, one containing Hawaiian toppings, the other vegan. They made two more stops on their own floor, first to donate their ballet tickets to Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen, who after first pretending not to understand, were eventually delighted when they realized they were being offered a free night on the town. Then they stopped at Mr. Bloom's in order to purchase two bottles of wine, and, for good measure, a bottle of tequila.

When they got back into their own apartment, the first thing they noticed was that it was almost completely dark. Santana flipped on a lamp near the living room entrance, revealing Rachel face-down, prostrate on the couch, looking as if she'd flung herself there in a dramatic swoon. Startled, she lurched up, blinking at them in the glare of the lamp. Her face was puffy and streaked with tears. When she realized who they were, she looked guilty. "_Oh_. What... what are you two doing back so soon? Did you forget something?"

Brittany moved into the room, casual. "Nope. We're not going. The ballet was cancelled. It turns out, all the dancers came down with monkeypox."

"Oh no!" Rachel was distressed. "That's horrible."

Brittany was unconcerned. "Yeah, but it's the mild kind, so... they'll live."

Sniffling, Rachel swiped a sleeve across her face, realizing how she must look. At Santana's raised eyebrows, she hastily said, "Oh, I... I wasn't crying about the audition. No, it's just that I was watching a sad movie."

Brittany and Santana both turned to look at the television, which was switched off.

"In my head," Rachel added.

Putting the pizza boxes down on the coffee table, Brittany approached and sat down on the couch next to her. "Well, you should turn that sad movie off, because... it's time for the most epic Valentine's Day girls' night ever."

Looking from one of them to the other, Rachel seemed unsure of whether she was understanding correctly. "What do you mean? You're staying in? With _me_?"

Impatient, Santana said, "Okay, what do y'all say we just skip the whole Lifetime-movie bullshit bonding scene and go straight to the getting schnockered? How does that sound?" She picked up a wine bottle and unscrewed the lid. Luckily it was the cheap kind, without a cork.

As if she hadn't heard her, Rachel swallowed hard and shook her head a little, as if she couldn't quite believe it. She was getting teary again. "I don't think anyone's ever done anything like this for me before."

Closing her eyes briefly in exasperation, Santana put the wine bottle back down, then picked up the tequila. Probably best to skip the warm-up round.

Brittany put her arm around Rachel, and Rachel leaned against her a little, clearly touched.

"So," she asked after a second, discreetly wiping her nose and making a supreme effort to put the brakes on the emotion. "What exactly happens on an epic girls' night? This is my first one."

"Well..." Brittany said, as if giving this some deep thought. "We _could _drink a ton of alcohol, bust out your karaoke machine, dress up like it's 1992, and perform TLC songs on the roof." She shrugged a little. "That's just an idea, though."

Rachel considered this for a minute, obviously intrigued. "Can I be Left Eye?"

Amused, Brittany looked at Santana, who was already taking her first swig of tequila, straight from the bottle. "Oh, you _have _to be Left Eye," she told Rachel, handing her one of the wine bottles and taking the other one for herself. "Otherwise it'll throw the whole thing off."

"Okay," Rachel said, smiling a little. Brittany gave her a playful nudge, making her laugh.

"Let's get this party started," Santana said. They raised their respective bottles and clinked them together.

* * *

><p><em>Peck. Peck<em>. _Tap tap tap_. _Peck_.

Without opening her eyes, Santana tried to get rid of the obnoxious noise. "Go away," she mumbled, the words emerging furry and croaking from her dry mouth. It stopped for a second, then resumed. _Peck peck_. With a supreme effort, squinting against the horrid glare of light coming from the front window, she opened her eyes. Startled by what she saw, she jerked up, smacking her head against the bottom of the glass coffee table. "_Fuck_." She lay back again, pressing a hand to her throbbing forehead, then opened her eyes for the second time and looked more closely. The damn parrot was on top of the table, pecking at the remains of a slice of pizza, its talons splayed out on the glass right above her head. For a split second she'd thought there was a dinosaur looming over her.

Groaning, every motion painful, she dragged herself out from under the coffee table and very slowly raised herself to a sitting position, leaning against the edge of it until the spinning stopped. Then she gazed around the living room, which looked like an earthquake had hit it. Couch cushions were missing. Pictures were askew. Furniture was out of place. The wine bottles seemed to have mated and produced offspring, because from here she could count at least four, and she knew they'd only started out with two. The tequila bottle was turned on its side on top of a bookshelf, nearly empty. The parrot was out of his cage, but _inside _the cage was what looked like one of Brittany's shoes. The Pictionary minute glass rested in a puddle of melted ice cream next to an overturned pint of Haagen-Dazs on the coffee table, and as Santana watched, the bird walked through the mess and then hopped onto the arm of the couch, tracking rum raisin across the upholstery. She looked away. If she didn't see it, it wasn't her problem.

Now she turned her attention to herself, looking down at her outfit, confused. She was wearing baggy yellow overalls that stopped at the knee, and underneath it, an oversized bright purple t-shirt. Reaching up, she pulled a knotted red handkerchief from her head, staring at it. "Where did this stuff even _come from_?" she muttered. Pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to force down the nausea that the whiff of ice cream provoked, she leaned her head on the coffee table and let her mind run back over the events of the night, trying to piece it together.

She knew they'd gone up onto the roof almost as soon as they'd started drinking. They'd done pretty much every TLC song in the karaoke repertoire, and Santana was certain, even through this morning's hangover fog, that she'd made a damn good Chilli. And, she had to admit, Rachel had been pretty adorable as Left Eye. Brittany of course was an awesome T-Boz, but there had never been any question about that. Maybe they should take their cover act on the road. She briefly imagined them performing those early nineties hip-hop songs in the swanky, sophisticated darkness of The Pearl, seeing in her mind the horrified look on Suresh's face, the customers' bafflement. She laughed a little, but then regretted it when she felt the blood pounding in her temples.

After exhausting that particular trio's catalogue, they'd moved on to other girl groups, getting more and more drunk as they went. They'd done some Salt-n-Pepa ("They're from Brooklyn!" Rachel had kept repeating in slurred excitement, to which Brittany had kept responding, "Oh my God!"). They'd done some Destiny's Child, and Brittany had performed a strip tease for Santana during _Say My Name_, which was sexy right up until she became hopelessly entangled in her own giant t-shirt and suspenders. (Brittany: I can't breathe. Santana: Just stop moving so I can get it off your head! Rachel: Should I go get the scissors?)

They'd done some En Vogue, and they'd even called Quinn to try to get her to sing along as their fourth over the phone, but Miss No-Fun Mopey-Pants kept hissing something about how she was in the library studying for midterms, and to _stop calling her_. Whatever. Her loss. Mercedes had been more obliging, and she'd sounded amazing on _You're_ _Never Gonna Get It_, but during an overenthusiastic dance move Santana had unfortunately kicked the phone and sent it skittering over the roof where it disappeared down some kind of drainage grate. Feeling like a murderer, she'd knelt at the grate and sobbed inconsolably, "_Merceeedes_!" while Brittany stroked her hair and tried to reason with her. "Sweetie, she's not really down there. It's just a phone."

Then they'd moved on to more obscure nineties girl groups, a few of whom they weren't too familiar with. One called Jade, and another one called SWV, which Brittany spent a hilarious few minutes trying to pronounce as a word while Rachel clamped her legs together in order not to pee herself from laughing. At some point, they'd even done some... Oh God, _Wilson Phillips_? Santana now leaned her head on the cool glass of the coffee table, thinking maybe it was for the best that she couldn't recall all the details. She knew that toward the end, they'd done the TLC songs all over again, because by that point they couldn't quite remember whether they'd done them to begin with.

As it turned out, that was the end of the evening's performing, though not by their choice. A cop from the local precinct had trekked up to the top of the building to politely inform them that it was time to turn the music off. Upset by the prospect, Rachel had tried to bargain with him. "What if the two of them make out in front of you? What if all _three _of us make out in front of you?" But he'd been firm, and so they'd collapsed onto their backs with their heads in a circle to stare at the invisible city stars and continue drinking, talking in slurred voices about all the ridiculous and intimate things that can only be said out loud when you're plastered with other girls. They talked about periods. They talked about where they wanted to be in ten years. They talked about sex. They talked about how scary it was to be on their own, away from their parents. They talked about the shape of their boobs. Then they compared the shape of their boobs.

At one point, Rachel got weepy reminiscing about how her high school freshman self would never believe that her college freshman self was hanging out with Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, and that she hadn't even had to pay them for it. Predictably, as if the tears were contagious, Santana got choked up too. "_I'm sorry we were so mean to youuu_." The awkwardness of sobriety cast aside, they clung to each other affectionately like it was something they did all the time. Since she had an amazing knack for staying unemotional when she drank, Brittany attempted to film them, possibly for some kind of future leverage or blackmail, or maybe for Rachel's movie. But she couldn't remember how to work her camera.

Later, sneaking a private moment behind the storage shed, Santana and Brittany had managed a passionate quickie, groping at each other with urgent, euphoric need. It wasn't exactly grand romance, but in the heat of the moment it felt pretty damn epic. Afterward they stood and held each other for a while, whispering earnest drunken endearments into one another's ears, rocking back and forth to the simple music of traffic sounds and the distant, mournful blare of a freight train. When they'd finally emerged from behind the shed, they'd discovered Rachel trying to climb up onto the ledge of the building in order to announce to the neighborhood that she was going to be more famous than all of them. Apparently the evening had been a success; she'd got her mojo back. They'd just barely pulled her down before she went over the edge. It seemed to be a clear signal that it was time to move the festivities back indoors.

After that point, Santana had no idea what had happened. The appearance of the living room seemed to indicate that the fun had continued, but she had no memory of it. And where the hell was everyone, anyway? Why was she alone, underneath the coffee table? With slow, careful movements, she pulled herself to a standing position, and holding the sides of her head to try to reduce the severity of the pounding, she went toward the kitchen.

In the doorway, she stopped and tried to let her eyes adjust to the even brighter sunlight that streamed from the east window. Kurt was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper, fully dressed and looking chipper. Just the sight of him pissed Santana off. He lowered the paper and stared at her, letting his gaze take in her entire outfit with ironic delight.

"Just... _don't_," she said, raising her hand to stop him before he could say anything. The expression on his face said it all, however.

She took a few steps into the room, leaning on the back of a chair for support.

"Well. I take it you ladies had quite the night," Kurt said.

"It would appear that way," Santana said with a grimace. "Have you seen Brittany?"

Without answering, Kurt leaned back a little in his chair, and reaching behind him, pulled open the door to the cabinet underneath the sink. Huddled in the dark, dingy space was Brittany, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head resting on the pipe that led to the faucet.

Santana peered in at her, troubled. "Honey, what are you doing in there?"

Brittany put her hand up to shade her eyes, saying in a miserable voice, "There was just so much light."

Crouching down, Santana helped pull her out. She stood up unsteadily, and Santana brushed flecks of grime off of her skin. Other than a lime-green baseball cap that was turned sideways on her head, she wasn't wearing anything but her bra and underwear.

"Brittany, _where _are your clothes?" Kurt asked.

She looked down at herself, puzzled. "I lost 'em."

Santana helped her to a chair at the table, then sank into another one.

"There's coffee," Kurt told her. She reached over and took the mug, drinking from it gratefully. "I didn't mean _mine_," he clarified. But he went to fix himself another one.

"So..." he went on, enjoying this. "I hear I missed out on quite the theme event. All the neighbors are abuzz with scandal. Apparently the police had to be called?"

"I can't believe someone did that," Brittany said, looking hurt. "Who doesn't love _Waterfalls_?"

"Actually I think it was probably _Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg _that was responsible," Santana said dryly, squeezing her temples and leaning her elbows on the table. "Or maybe the third rendition of _What About Your Friends_."

Brittany shrugged, unapologetic. "One just wasn't enough, though."

Kurt sat back down again with his fresh mug of coffee. "Well, judging by those songs, I suppose it's a good thing I wasn't here, after all. I'm sure my testosterone would have been out of place during such a femmetastic celebration."

"_Please_," Santana said. "I have more testosterone than you do." Just saying it made her feel better. Maybe she could insult her way out of the hangover.

Suddenly the parrot flapped into the room, landing in the middle of the kitchen table. "What is this thing doing out of its cage?" Kurt asked with distaste.

Trying to remember the details, Brittany wrinkled her forehead, saying, "I think I may have tried to set him free."

He shook his head a little, not surprised. "I guess that would explain why all the windows were open when I got home last night."

"How was your date, anyway?" Brittany asked, picking at a section of her hair that was fused together by dried, sticky ice cream.

"It was fine." Off of Brittany's disappointed look, he smiled and then, as if he couldn't help himself, continued in a gushing tone, "Actually, if you want to know the truth, it was spectacular. It was elegant, classic, refined... like a Fred and Ginger movie."

Santana smirked at him. It was no challenge to crack that code. "You didn't get any, did you?"

"By mutual consent, Eli and I..." he interrupted himself, adding as a smug aside, "He said I can call him _Eli _now. Anyway, the two of us decided to wait, to not rush into things. I think... I think this may end up being something, I don't know... something special. I really like him."

Brittany gave him a warm smile. "I'm so happy for you. And I'm glad I ignored you when you tried to stop me from asking him out."

"So am I," he agreed.

Bored already, Santana said, "Well, while you were out busy _not _getting laid, Britts and I were here, being awesome, mature people and taking care of a friend in need. Because that's howz we roll." She shooed the bird away from her coffee.

"Yes," he said. "Speaking of that. Where is Rachel, anyway?"

The self-satisfied look faded from Santana's face to be replaced by mild alarm. _Shit_. That was a good question. What if she'd gone back up to the roof? If you got somebody drunk and they fell off a building, were you legally responsible?

"She's passed out in the bathtub," Brittany supplied. Off of their expressions of concern, she added, "Oh, there's no water in it. Just flower petals. I tried to move her, but she was having some kind of nightmare and I was afraid she was gonna choke me. I think it was about deli meat. And Finn."

"Finn is a terrible lay," the parrot contributed.

The three of them stared at the bird for a minute, all looking guilty and chastened. It didn't seem quite so funny anymore. Sighing, Kurt said, "We should probably do something about that."

Half an hour later, Rachel finally made her entrance in the kitchen. She staggered in, squinting, her arms around herself. She was dressed much like Santana, in an oversized t-shirt, hers with a giant multicolored smiley face on it. Her hair was twisted up in a top-knot with a scrunchie wrapped around it, and the smudge of black makeup she'd put under her left eye was now smeared and streaked. In addition to this, there were damp, withered rose petals stuck all over her body, including on her arms and neck. She looked like a native of some kind of badly-dressed tropical tribe.

"Is there coffee?" she half-whispered, sounding like an old lady on her deathbed.

Brittany got up to pour a cup, and Rachel leaned against the counter, closing her eyes for a second. "I just want to say that as far as epic girls' nights go, I think ours must have been one of the most epic of all time." She stopped for a second, seeming nauseous. "And I want you both to know how much I appreciate it. But perhaps we should make some kind of pact that this _particular _mode of bonding should only take place once, maybe twice, a year. At most."

"Agreed," Santana said, her headache now kicking up a notch simply from listening to Rachel say so many damn words.

"Fine with me," Brittany said. She still hadn't bothered to put on any clothes. "Oh, hey," she said, as if she'd just remembered. "Kurt, have you heard from Tony lately?"

"Why no, now that you mention it, I haven't, Brittany," he said, in a stagey, overdramatic way. "I haven't heard from _Tony _in ages."

Rachel looked back and forth from one to the other, confused. "Who's Tony?"

The parrot hopped onto the back of one of the kitchen chairs. "The Tony Award goes to Miss Rachel Berry." He dipped his head a few times, like a bow, then repeated the phrase again.

Realizing what they'd done, Rachel brought her hand up to her heart. As if in slow motion, her face seemed to fold in on itself. A choked-sounding sob escaped her. She turned and blindly reached out for the nearest person, who happened to be Brittany, and threw her arms around her.

"Oh. Okay," Brittany said, surprised. She held the coffee mug out away from their bodies to keep it from spilling.

"For God's sake," Santana said, rolling her eyes, which she immediately regretted, because apparently even her eyeballs were sore.

Brittany stared down at Rachel, who was clinging to her and sniffling with grateful emotion. "You're getting that black makeup on my boob," she told her. Then, after a few seconds, seeing that Rachel had no intention of moving, she added, "That's okay, though." With her free hand, she awkwardly patted her back.

* * *

><p>They moved down the carpeted aisle of Lincoln Center, Santana checking the row numbers against the tickets she held, Brittany gazing around her, to the side, up at the faraway dome of the ceiling, ahead at the stage, mesmerized.<p>

"Santana, look," she breathed. "Look at the chandelier."

They both tilted their heads back and gazed straight up at the colossal round sphere made up of smaller globes of light. It was almost enough to make you dizzy.

"Wow."

"I know," Brittany said in awe. "I feel like we snuck into the bedroom of a fancy gay giant."

"Oh, I think this is us," Santana said as she stopped and checked the tickets again. She moved down the row, Brittany following her. They found their designated spots and settled in. These seats, she had to admit, were actually better than the ones she'd been able to afford. She didn't want to think about how much they must have cost. The tickets had been on their dresser when they woke up this morning, a gift from Rachel.

"I can't believe we're finally here," Brittany said. "I just hope the dancers are over their monkeypox by now."

Santana gave her a strange look. "You made that up, remember?"

After a few seconds of thought, Brittany said, "Oh yeah."

Folding her coat over her lap, Santana let herself relax into her seat. She gazed around at the opulent, gilded interior, the gold-tinted accents, the five tiered layers of balconies stretching up to the baroque ceiling. _This _is what people came to New York City for. She felt a bit ridiculous about the fact that she'd been living here for over half a year now and this was the first time she'd been here. She vowed to start trying to be more cultured.

As they listened to the orchestra tuning up, Brittany checked her phone one last time. It always pained her to have to turn it off. "Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said. "I called that Allison girl."

Santana looked over at her, determined to play this moment very cool. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah... and I'm pretty sure she's not gay. Or at least that's not why she wanted to talk to me. Get this... it turns out? She wants private dance lessons. And she doesn't want anyone at NYADA to know about it, so she's too afraid to go to a real instructor. Apparently word gets around."

She had to admit this sort of made sense, considering the girl was crap at anything involving music. But the paranoid part of her brain also thought it sounded like a convenient pretext. "So... are you gonna say yes?"

"I might as well, she said she'll pay me. And... I miss dancing. But I told her I don't really know what I'm doing. She said she doesn't care."

"Well, I just hope that stick-up-her-ass snow queen knows how to keep her frigid white hands to herself." _Damn it_. So much for being cool.

Looking amused and understanding at the same time, Brittany said, "You can come with me, if you want to."

Santana started to accept this offer, but then stopped herself. "Nah... that's okay." She smiled at her a little. "I trust you." She looked thoughtful for a second, wondering if she really wanted to say the words that were on her mind. It probably wasn't the best time. But still, she had to ask. "Hey, are you still thinking about going home for a visit soon?"

Brittany considered the question, almost as if she'd forgotten bringing up the idea to begin with. "I don't know. Definitely not right away. I've got too much to do. I mean, besides work, there's Pete's doctor's appointment... and I'm supposed to help Kurt with his musical. And now this thing with Allison." She shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know how you guys managed before I got here."

Laughing a little, Santana said with a mixture of irony and sincerity, "Neither do I." She took a deep breath of relief, grateful that the subject could be laid to rest in her mind, for the time being at least.

The lights began to dim. Excited, Brittany leaned over and shook Santana's arm a little, in case she hadn't noticed. "It's starting!" she whispered.

Santana grinned at her, thrilled to see her so happy. It was what she'd been hoping for. It was why she'd wanted to bring her to the ballet to begin with. There was no real reason to think that Brittany would enjoy it, yet she'd had a feeling that she would.

During the overture, Brittany leaned over and said softly, "We should do this every year. It could be, like, a tradition. Like how Jewish people go to the movies on Christmas."

Santana continued looking straight ahead, not giving any outward indication of the way those words went to the core of her, the way they reverberated in her heart. _Every year. Every year_. She swallowed hard, waiting a few seconds to make sure she could reply without her voice sounding strange. Her eyes glittered just the slightest bit with moisture. "I like that idea," she told Brittany.

Soon, the dancers came out. Brittany was immediately rapt, enchanted. Unable to stop herself, Santana turned a covert glance on her face, finding it much more rewarding than what was taking place on the stage. The colored scene lights reflected dimly off Brittany's profile, off the animation there, the life. There was simple, childlike joy in her expression, but there was so much more than that, a thousand flickering shades of nuance that were right there if you knew how to look for them. A hint of nostalgia, a spark of humor, a glint of envy. Sometimes Santana wondered if anyone other than her could see all of it.

Eventually, Brittany seemed to feel the weight of the gaze that rested on her. Or maybe she'd felt it the whole time, but only chose to acknowledge it now. She glanced to the side. "_Santana_. You're not even watching it," she chided her.

She reached over and gently brushed a lock of hair behind Brittany's ear. After a second she said, "I've got a pretty good view from here."

Brittany looked touched. As if she couldn't resist, she leaned in to kiss her, stroking Santana's face with her thumb, lingering on her top lip like it was the only thing worth paying attention to in the entire world. The dim light from the stage just barely illuminated their faces, but they weren't concerned with whether anyone could see them or not. It didn't matter even the slightest bit.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Brittany whispered, moving back just a little.

Santana eventually remembered to open her eyes again. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said back to her, the words almost inaudible.

Brittany rested her head on Santana's shoulder. Santana pressed her lips to her hair, then leaned her cheek against her. Finally, she turned her attention toward the stage.


	9. Chapter 9

Super long A/N:

(Few random replies first) -

To the anon who was happy to see Brittany as "her bubbly friendly excited childlike self" in Ch. 8, I'm glad you liked it, but it's actually canon that Brittany is annoyed by Rachel. ;) Outside of performances she's been pretty mean to her, and in 3.02 she even told her she hated her, Lol. And as far as this fic being a continuation of Season 3, for the most part it is, but when it comes to Brittany, it's more a continuation of Season 2. I'm not a fan of how the new writers have handled her character. I much prefer the more fleshed-out, quirky-instead-of-childlike version we were getting during the major Brittana arc in late Season 2. (And I've never seen her as particularly bubbly or excited, anyway. She speaks in a monotone, and she doesn't even smile all that much during her lines.)

extendedmetaphors: Yes, the whole "love vs in-love" convo from Ch. 4 will absolutely come back into play; it's kind of what the whole story is driving towards. I never meant to drag the conclusion out for so long, but I keep getting distracted by other side stories I want to tell.

To the anon who left the link to that collage, and to the person who made it, that was so amazing and inspiring! I don't know if I was ever intended to see it or not, but I'm so glad I did. :)

Random note - the version of "In My Life" in this chapter is somewhat inspired by Allison Crowe's version on You Tube; or at least that's the closest fit I could find to what I had in my head.

And now, about this chapter, I apologize for taking so long with this update. But it's almost twice as long as the last one, and took twice as long to write. It was also the hardest to write because it means the most to me. I've been so angry and disappointed ever since seeing the way Santana's outing and its aftermath were handled in 3.06 and 3.07, and the recent 3.16 was another reminder to me that they just aren't capable of writing Santana with any real respect for what she went through, or even of understanding the kind of effect it could have on an actual teenage girl. I still hope to see it, but the hope is fading fast.

So this is my attempt to deal with it, and to work out some of my own issues through the character. I hope for some people it can be a bit cathartic the way it was for me, and if anyone is offended or disturbed, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I have no betas and no one has read this but me, so I honestly don't know how readers will respond. Please be honest and let me know.

To those who review, thank you again... I don't know how I can say it enough. It means the world to me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

On their side of the court, Santana watched Brittany toss the tennis ball into the air, and then in the same smooth motion raise the racquet high above her head to give it a resounding whack, her natural coordination making it look as though she'd been doing this for years. The ball sailed over the net in a perfect arc, dropped gracefully down just in front of the service line... and then bounced off the top of Rachel's head as she cowered in terror.

"Damn it, Berry, at least _try _to hit it!" Santana yelled across the net, exasperated.

"How can I try to hit it when you both keep deliberately aiming at my nose? You think I don't see what's going on here? You're ganging up on me!"

With a heavy sigh, Santana looked over at Brittany, shaking her head. "Hopeless. It's hopeless."

"Serve this one to me!" Kurt called out. He bent his knees and rocked from one foot to the other, crouched in preparation, as if he actually had a clue what he was doing.

"Okay, you big baby, relax. This one's not yours," Santana said reassuringly, getting another ball and passing it to Brittany. With an air of distrust, Rachel loosened her stance, letting the racquet hang by her side.

Again, Brittany tossed the ball in the air, bounced up on her toes to hit it, and watched as it soared across the court and smacked Rachel square in the middle of her chest before she even had a chance to raise her arms in protection.

"_Brittany_!"

Ducking her head a little and trying to hide her triumphant smile, Brittany said, "Sorry, it slipped." Santana laughed too, unable to help herself. It was just too easy.

"Stop being tennis bullies!" Kurt lectured them. "You know, I do believe it's my turn to serve, anyway."

Although it technically wasn't his turn, none of them bothered to argue the point. They hadn't had much luck figuring out the intricacies of this strange, complicated, and in Santana's words, "super-white"game. Brittany had seemed relieved to see that it wasn't just her; that the rules were confusing for all of them. What was the difference between a game and a set and a match? Why did the points jump from fifteen to thirty? Why was zero called _love_? "It's so delightfully snooty and British," Kurt had remarked.

Now Rachel picked up one of the numerous balls that littered their side of the court and passed it to him with a tentative underhand throw. He caught it, looking pleased with himself. Then he stared at it for a few seconds of intense concentration, tossed it up, swung... and missed entirely. The ball bounced back down in front of him.

On the other side of the court, Brittany crossed her arms, bored.

"Just warming up!" he called.

"That was really good technique, Kurt," Rachel told him with enthusiasm.

"Why thank you, Rachel." He took a deep breath, gathered his focus, and then tried it again. This time, the racquet connected with the ball. It connected so well, in fact, that the ball sailed over not just the net, but the other side of the court, the fence separating the court from the rest of the NYADA campus, and the row of decorative hedges beyond the fence.

"Home run!" Rachel exclaimed, as she and Kurt hopped around and cavorted in celebration, hanging from each other's necks.

Brittany shook her head. "Nope."

"But... we get points, right?"

"No, you don't get any points, geniuses," Santana said, at the end of her patience. "It has to be inside the lines!"

Rachel attempted to bargain. "I think you should give us points anyway. For motivation!"

"Well, see, we _would_," she said with a smirk, "But that would be encouraging cheating, and we just don't want to raise you kids that way."

Brittany added, trying to be fair, "You can have a do-over, though. Just... try not to do _that_, over. I think you might have killed a bird." She started to toss Kurt another ball, but now he was holding a small powder compact, looking into the mirror and applying the puff to his nose.

"What is he doing?" Santana demanded.

"You can say what you want, but physical exertion is no excuse to get shiny," he told her. "Did Cheerios teach you nothing?" He adjusted his fluffy white sweat band, which matched the pristine brightness of his preppy alligator shirt and his embarrassing too-short khaki shorts.

"Kurt, come on!" Brittany begged.

Santana added, " "I am seriously about to go _all _John McEnroe on somebody."

Finally, after deliberately taking his time, he put the compact away. He got another ball, and on this third attempt at a serve, he managed to hit it in the vicinity of Santana. Surprised, she swung just in time and sent it back over the net. With a cringe of fear, Rachel raised her racquet to defend her face, and by chance the ball hit it and bounced back over the net again. This time Brittany returned it, in Kurt's direction. He ran forward to smack it, but it hit the net, not making it over.

"Now _we _get points!" Santana crowed, jabbing her finger at them in a confrontational way. After a pause, she admitted, "I'm just not sure how many."

"Did you see that? That was incredible!" Rachel gushed to no one in particular. "It was like we were really playing there for a minute!"

"Okay, so why don't we keep it going," Brittany urged them.

"Yes, absolutely," Rachel agreed. "But first, time out!" She made an exaggerated T sign with her hands. "Let's do pictures!"

"Oooh, fabulous idea," Kurt said.

"_What_?" Santana said. "You can't call a time out!"

Ignoring her, Rachel set up her camera on one of the posts that held the net in place. She and Kurt backed up and positioned themselves in front of it, falling into a series of elaborate poses that seemed to have been rehearsed at some point in the past - first pursing their lips and smooshing their cheeks together, then standing back to back with hands on hips and lifted chins, then facing each other with racquets aloft and exaggerated athletic posturing, all while smiling manically and mugging at the camera.

Brittany came to stand next to Santana, letting her racquet hang at her side. Together they watched Kurt and Rachel, baffled.

"We really have to find some other people to play against," Brittany muttered.

Later, they had lunch at one of the picnic tables next to the court. It was sunny and in the lower sixties, just barely warm enough to sit outside. And despite being right in the heart of Manhattan, it was a quiet, peaceful area, since this section of campus near the fitness center was almost entirely deserted. In fact, other than the ballet barres, it didn't seem that the NYADA fitness center was used for much of anything at all. Santana suspected that they may have been the first people ever on the tennis court. In her opinion, some schools had more money than they knew what to do with.

Kurt brushed sandwich crumbs from his bright white shirt. "You know," he mused, looking down at himself, "I have to admit I was skeptical, but this ensemble is much more flattering than I thought it would be. Would you say this look is more Navratilova, or Billie Jean King?"

"I'd say you look like more of a lesbian than I do," Santana told him, tossing her Coke can into the trash. "So if that's what you were going for, mission accomplished."

"Maybe I should incorporate a tennis number into my musical," he said, as if thinking out loud.

"Oh, that's a good idea!" Rachel said. "Sports numbers are always fun. Much more fun than, say, _actual _sports, which are terrifying."

Brittany sprinkled crumbled-up Doritos onto the ground for the pigeons. She was standing on the bench, which gave Santana the perfect opportunity to look up her short skirt. It was the only thing that made tennis worth it. "How's your musical going, anyway?" She tossed another handful of chip crumbs, and then licked her palm. "You never did really say what it was about."

Kurt considered. "I guess you could say it's about... a boy from the midwest who goes to a performing arts school in New York City, but then feels stifled and bored and decides to write his own musical. That's the gist of it, anyway." He looked just a tad self-conscious after saying this.

Picking up on his discomfort, Santana gave him an ironic smile. "Well, that is just a super original plot. And tell me... Is the boy in the musical _also _writing a musical about a boy who writes a musical?"

"Stop it," Brittany said, bringing her hands up to her temples. "I feel dizzy."

Rachel jumped in to his defense. "While it may not be the most creative plot Kurt could have invented, I have to say that from what I've seen so far, it's outstanding work. And besides, most of the best art is drawn from life. Just look at my movie, _Metaphors are Important, _for example. Even though we're only in the drafting phase, I think Brittany would agree that it's going to be a stunningly evocative meditation on the humble beginnings of stardom."

Brittany shot Santana a look that clearly said she did not, in fact, agree with this at all.

Kurt also seemed to want to distance himself from this particular project. "My show is not entirely based on my life," he clarified. "There are some areas of overlap, of course, but there are also some very key differences."

Santana rested her chin in her hand, leaning forward and feigning interest. "_Really_. What's the main character's name?"

Now he looked uncomfortable again, but also slightly defensive. He hesitated for a few seconds, then without making eye contact, mumbled, "Kip Hammel."

Obviously enjoying herself, Santana gave him another mocking smile. "Well, I for one think it sounds like the theatrical event of the decade. And I can not _wait _to find out who'll be playing the no-doubt controversial yet still lovable role of Samantha Lezpez."

Quickly, Rachel swallowed the juice she was drinking and said, "Oh, I've already called dibs on that role. It's got Drama Desk Award written all over it."

"_What_?" Santana looked at her like she was crazy. "Oh _hell no_, you are not playing me. Kurt, tell her she can't play me!"

"Can I play Mercedes?" Brittany asked. "When we were in the Troubletones together, people were always getting our voices mixed up. And we both have secret moles in the shape of Pokémon characters."

Trying to be diplomatic, Kurt said, "Why don't we just wait until the script is completed before we worry about the finer details of casting, hmm, ladies?"

Abandoning the argument with reluctance, and with Santana still shooting threatening glances at Rachel, they gathered their things together and prepared to go. As they headed back toward the main entrance, they passed Polly Lin, who was absorbed in a songbook and almost didn't notice them. "Oh, hi," she said, looking up.

"Hello, Polly," Rachel said with forced brightness. Ever since she'd been cast as her understudy, her interactions with Polly had taken on a tinge of desperation. As the date of the revue approached, the urgency was more apparent. "How are you feeling? No signs of illness, I hope? No impending symptoms of West Nile Virus... SARS... throat cancer?"

She gave her a strange look. "No... I'm good."

"Wonderful. I'm so happy to hear it." Rachel's smile looked painful.

Polly started to continue on, but then turned again and asked, "Are you guys coming to that vigil tonight?"

Kurt and Rachel threw each other concerned looks, bothered by the idea that they might be the last to know about something. "What vigil?" Kurt asked.

"Oh... you didn't hear?" She took a few steps back toward them, and then, hesitantly, after a quick, awkward glance at Santana and Brittany, she said, "I thought everyone knew by now. It's so sad. One of our finalists for admission next year, some girl from Kansas, she... she killed herself." Polly lowered her voice discreetly for these last words, even though there was no one else around.

"Oh my God," Rachel said, shocked. "_Why_? Because she didn't get in?"

"No, actually... she probably _would _have gotten in. She just didn't know it yet." She paused. "I don't really know all the details." Now she looked behind her, as if she was anxious to be done with this morbid task. "But apparently, someone found her private blog, online? I think her friends were mad at her or something. And they posted screen shots from it, all over school."

They continued to stare at her, blankly, waiting. All except for Santana, who was staring at a crack in the sidewalk, because she already knew what the next words would be.

"She was outed," Polly said, softly.

For a few seconds none of them said anything. Then Kurt broke the silence, echoing Rachel's words. "My God," he said, sounding shocked. "This is terrible."

Still looking at the ground, Santana felt, rather than saw, Brittany shift just the slightest bit closer to her, so that their arms were pressed together. Maybe she wasn't even aware that she did it.

Polly continued. "So anyway, they're having this vigil thing for her tonight, in the banquet hall. Actually I guess it's more of a benefit. They're gonna be collecting money for her family, and for the Trevor Project. Everyone's going."

"Of course, we'll be there," Rachel told her, still sounding stunned. "We wouldn't miss it."

Polly nodded a little, seeming relieved that she'd finished. "Well, I'll see you guys tonight, then." She turned and continued on her way.

Nobody said anything for a minute. Gradually, they started walking again, but slower than before. Maybe it was just her imagination, but Santana thought she could feel the weight of all of them trying their hardest not to look at her. For some reason it made her want to shove somebody.

After a long silence, Kurt spoke. "I just can't believe it. No matter how many times it happens... You never get used to it."

"If they could have just sent her the acceptance letter a little sooner, maybe..." Rachel trailed off.

"It wasn't their fault," Brittany said, quiet. "They couldn't have known."

"No, I know that," Rachel agreed. "And maybe it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. But if she'd only known she could get out of there soon..." She glanced at Santana, and then stopped. Making an obvious effort to get the conversation back onto more neutral footing, she said, "You know, I think I'll call Jesse. If they're trying to raise money, then the more people who attend, the better."

"That's a good idea," Kurt said.

They were back out on 60th Street by now, in front of the main classroom and studio building. Rachel paused while a pair of overweight women in bright sweatshirts, possibly tourists, passed by. Then she suggested, hesitantly, "Santana, maybe you could ask Millie? I know things didn't exactly end well, but... I'm sure she would like to help."

Finally, Santana turned to face them, speaking for the first time in a voice that was harsher than she'd expected. "Yeah, well, _I'm_ sure she wouldn't. And just for the record? I'm not gonna be inviting anybody to this little shindig-of-woe, because I'm not going."

They all looked at her with surprise, even Brittany. "You're not?" she asked.

"Look, it sucks, okay? I'm not saying it doesn't. But just because this girl was crazy enough to want to get into your ridiculous school, let's not pretend you have some big meaningful connection to her. You don't have any idea who she was. You don't know anything about why she _really _did this. Who the hell knows, maybe she was a nutcase her whole life. I mean, she _was _applying to NYADA, after all. Think about it. Maybe when show tunes didn't get her the attention she craved, this was, like, her last-ditch desperate effort to steal the spotlight."

Speechless and a bit taken aback, they continued to stare at her. The expressions on their faces, rather than checking her bitterness, only made her want to say something even more outrageous.

"So you guys can all go and light your stupid candles, and hold hands while you sing songs from Rent, and pat yourselves on the back about what awesome enlightened people you are. Just count me out. I can think of like a million better ways to spend my evening. One of which would be cleaning our massive multi-colored hair clog out of the shower drain, because at least _that _wouldn't be a huge waste of time."

After a shocked silence, Rachel began, "How can you..." but Kurt nudged her, giving her a look and a slight shake of his head that instantly made her stop talking. Rather than being grateful, Santana felt a brief flash of irritation for his solicitude. Even though she knew he didn't mean it that way, it felt patronizing, and at the moment, there was nothing she could tolerate less.

But it was Brittany whose eyes she couldn't meet. And now she was approaching, closer, and Santana knew that in a few seconds she would reach out toward her, to put a hand on the small of her back, maybe, or to thread their fingers together. She knew it by instinct, the familiarity of long intimacy and deep love meaning that she could predict her movements almost as if they were a part of her own body. Without knowing why, she put her hands in her jacket pockets and took a step backward, eluding her.

"You know what, I just remembered," she said suddenly, trying to bring her tone back to casual. "I have to stop by the library to do some research. This history project is really kicking my ass."

"But... you didn't bring any of your stuff with you," Brittany pointed out.

"Yeah, well... it's a library. The books are already there. That's kind of the point."

Unwilling to give up quite yet, she offered, "I can come with you."

"No," Santana insisted, putting even more space between them. "That's okay. You'd just be bored."

At the slightly insulted look on Brittany's face, she hastened to add, "I only meant... because I'll be busy." Before she could say anything else she would regret, she reached up and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and still without making eye contact, turned to go. "I'll see you guys at home later."

Relieved to get away, she crossed the street and walked off, fast, feeling their concerned gazes following her. She didn't look back.

* * *

><p>Even though it was a lie she'd made up on the spur of the moment, Santana went to the library anyway, since she had no other particular destination in mind. But instead of going to the one on her own campus, she headed to the main branch of the public library on 42nd Street, losing herself among the ornate vastness and the quiet buzz of other patrons. She even attempted to work on her history research project, but Brittany had been right, of course. She didn't have any of her materials with her, not even her laptop. There wasn't much she could do. For a while she tried to take notes on her phone, but it was more trouble than it was worth.<p>

So she ended up in the periodicals room, thumbing through a stack of magazines. She started out trying to be diligent and studious, focusing on current events and news, but then she somehow moved on to women's magazines, trying to distract herself with their vapid shallowness. There were only so many articles she could endure, however, on the topic of how to please your man in bed, and eventually she found herself with a bound collection of Playboys from the 1950s. Which _were_, after all, historical, if one wanted to get technical about it. So in a way, she reasoned, she was doing history research. And they most certainly kept her mind off of other things she wanted to avoid thinking about.

After wasting as much time as she could, she finally headed back to Brooklyn, feeling calmer and less brittle now that she'd had some time alone. But still, she couldn't help hoping that they would all be gone by the time she got home. It was only about 6:00, but maybe they would have headed out already? Having never been to one, she didn't have a clue what time these ghoulish get-togethers normally started. Early, she hoped.

Inside the building, she was relieved to see that Pete must have gone inside his apartment to heat up his microwave dinner, since his chair was empty. Lately he'd been getting more and more insistent about details for "the wedding." Only a few days ago he'd accosted her on her way to class and demanded to know whether she and Greta were both going to be wearing dresses, or whether one of them would wear, as he put it, "trousers." As usual, she'd tried to be vague, but he'd given her a bridal catalog anyway, with certain pages folded down at the corners to indicate his suggestions. She hadn't bothered to point out to him that the catalog was from 1987. She couldn't even imagine where he'd found it. But the fact that it was more than twenty years out of date hadn't stopped Rachel from choosing bridesmaids' dresses for their non-existent bridesmaids; garish, colorful concoctions of lace and ruffles that Kurt had described as "part Debbie Gibson, part My Little Pony."

Upstairs, she unlocked the front door and opened it slowly, listening. Everything seemed quiet. Hopeful, she started down the hall to her room. But as she passed the bathroom, she detected the sound of water running, and then the telltale notes of _Les Miserables_. It was Kurt. Disappointed, Santana closed her eyes for a second. _Damn it_. It was usually possible to gauge what kind of mood Rachel and Kurt were in by the musicals they chose to sing in the shower. And today, Kurt wasn't even singing, he was humming, which meant he was feeling especially serious. It seemed they were only now getting ready to leave. She should have stayed gone longer. For a split second she considered sneaking out again before anyone noticed she was home, but then decided this was idiotic.

In their bedroom, she found Brittany sitting in front of the vanity mirror, applying light makeup. She looked up as Santana came in. With a slight air of caution, she said, "Hey. How was the library?"

"It was good. I got a lot done," she lied. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began unlacing her sneakers. In the mirror, Brittany watched her, trying to read her, but she kept applying makeup in order to make it seem like she wasn't. Santana wasn't fooled.

"Guess what happened on the way home?" she asked, brushing on eyeshadow. "Some homeless guy tried to give me a baggie filled with magical disappearing juice. He said all you have to do is sprinkle it on somebody, and _poof_, they just... disappear. But Kurt wouldn't let me take it, because he said it was actually just pee."

Santana nodded a little, amused. "I think he was probably right about that."

"I mean, yeah, it _was _yellow, but... if you never take a chance on crazy people, who knows, we could be missing out on some really great stuff. Just look at Jack and the Beanstalk. If _Kurt _had gone with him to take that cow to market, he never would have got the beans at all, and he never would have killed the giant and stolen all his bling."

Pretending to consider the logic of this, Santana said, "Maybe you're right. We could definitely use some giant bling up in here right now... the cable bill is due on Wednesday."

After another few minutes, Brittany turned around and faced her. As if making up her mind after an inner debate, she took a deep breath and began with hesitation. "So... I know you said you don't want to go to that benefit. And, I promise I won't keep asking, if you say no again." She paused, then added simply, "But I really wish you would come with me."

Santana scooted back on the bed a little, drawing her feet up underneath her. For a second she didn't answer. "Britt, why do you want to go to this thing? We're not even students there."

Even though she'd meant the question somewhat rhetorically, Brittany gave it serious consideration, searching for the right answer. But she couldn't seem to put it into words. "I don't know," she admitted. "I just do. It seems important."

She sighed, tracing one of the butterflies on the bedspread with her finger. Somehow, she'd known this would happen. And it was too hard to deny Brittany what she wanted, especially when she asked in that voice, that voice that implicitly said _I know you'll do the right thing_. Now that she pressed herself, she found she couldn't think of any specific reasons for not going, anyway. It was pure instinct that made her want to avoid it. Maybe this was one of those times when she should trust Brittany's instincts, rather than her own. At least Brittany's seemed to come from a good place.

"All right," she finally said, meeting her eyes and giving in. "If it means that much to you, I'll go."

Brittany smiled a little, grateful. "Thank you." She got up and went to get her shoes from the wardrobe, then sat down next to Santana on the bed in order to put them on, darting searching glances at her while she did so.

"But listen... you're gonna have to stop giving me that look."

"What look?"

"That 'Do you want to talk?' look. Because the answer is _no_. I don't. There's nothing to talk about." She didn't mean for this to sound so sharp, but she wanted to be clear about it. Because whatever dark thing it was that had threatened to rise up in her when Polly passed along her little piece of gossip this afternoon, it had nothing to do with words. To try to wrap words around it and hold it in place would be like inviting it to stay, and she wanted nothing more than for it to evaporate and disappear, preferably while her back was turned.

"Okay," Brittany said after a second. She said it as if she didn't quite want to agree to this rule, but as if she knew it was the wisest course for now. Then, determined to at least get the most important thing off her chest, she said in a casual way, "I love you, though." Then she looked a bit guilty. "Does that count as talking?"

Santana smiled a little, charmed in spite of herself. "I guess not."

"Good." Brittany leaned closer and kissed her on the shoulder, then balanced her chin there for a second. Santana could feel the warmth of her skin, just inches away from her own. She tilted her head toward her, letting her temple come in contact with Brittany's forehead for a moment, but even this brief intimacy threatened to be too disarming, so she pulled away.

"I should probably hit the shower. Assuming Valjean is out of there, of course."

"I doubt it, he said he was gonna exfoliate... and I'm not sure exactly what that is, but I bet it requires lube," Brittany explained. "Makes you wish you had a baggie of magical disappearing juice, doesn't it?" She gave an innocent shrug. "I'm just saying."

Santana watched her for a second, then, unable to help herself, she leaned toward her and delivered a light kiss on Brittany's shoulder, an exact match to the one she'd just received. "I love you too," she whispered. Then, collecting herself and trying to steel her emotions for the night ahead, she stood up and went to get ready.

* * *

><p>An hour later, after a quick dinner and after making Rachel change her outfit three times before any of them would consent to be seen in public with her, it was time to go. The four of them crept down the last flight of stairs, Kurt in front. He peeked around the banister into the hallway, and then, like a soldier signaling his battalion, made a silent forward gesture with his hand. They tiptoed after him, trying not to make a sound. Santana always felt a bit ridiculous when they did this, like they were acting out a Scooby Doo scene, but it was worth it not to wake Pete up.<p>

Tonight, however, Brittany's conscience seemed to bother her. She stopped, looking back at his sleeping form, his wide, gaping mouth emitting boisterous, almost fake-sounding snores.

"We should check and see if he took his pills," she whispered.

"Why don't we wait and do it when we get back?" Rachel suggested. Immediately, Pete's eyes popped open. Because with Rachel, even a whisper was meant to carry to the nosebleed seats.

"Aha!" he shouted, jolting his chair upright. "Just the people I wanted to see. I have matters to discuss with all of you."

"Sorry," Rachel said, off of Kurt and Santana's murderous looks.

"You know, Pete," Santana began, "We're sort of in a hurry, so maybe we could..."

"Mr. Wexler!" he interrupted her, looking at Kurt. "I wanted to let you know I'm having some trouble with my multiplication table."

"I _so _know what you mean," Brittany sympathized. "Once you get past three, it's all just a blur."

He continued. "So I thought perhaps I should stay in from recess, and we could work on it, just the two of us?"

Kurt looked alarmed. "No... no no. That's okay. You go ahead with the other kids. I do _not _need to see you alone," he said, emphasizing the last part as if for some kind of invisible jury.

Disappointed, Pete asked, "But what about your back rub?"

"My God, how was this teacher never arrested?" Kurt muttered.

Already bored with the subject, now Pete turned his attention to Santana and Rachel. "And you two!" He hooked his finger at them sternly in a _come here _gesture. Knowing that there was no way out of it now, they moved closer to his chair, Santana trying and failing to suppress a sigh of impatience.

"Now. Let's talk flowers." He picked up a spiral notebook from his chair's tray. The pages were yellowed and the thing looked to be about thirty years old, but it seemed he'd been making recent notes in it, because he consulted it like a checklist. "Greta tells me it's going to be a spring wedding."

"Oh, she _does_, does she?" Santana gave her a pointed look.

Rachel looked as if she'd been caught at something. "I didn't specify _which _spring," she said in her own defense.

"Now, I realize when it comes to flowers you might be tempted to go with something tame, like roses, or lilies, so as not to offend," he went on. "But this is a lesbian wedding, and my advice is to go all out. Make a splash." He leaned in, as if passing along confidential information. "_Orchids_. They look just like vulvas!"

Santana cringed in disgust, but Rachel seemed pleasantly interested. "Oh, that's a nice idea! But... what kind of orchid were you thinking of? Because I should tell you there are certain varieties that I have a mild allergy to, nothing _serious_, but I wouldn't want to be sniffling through the service..." After receiving an elbow jab from Santana that was not at all subtle and possibly painful, Rachel seemed to change her mind. "But you know what, any kind of orchid is fine."

"Is that all?" Santana asked him, impatient.

"Hardly!" he barked. "About the entertainment. Now, I'm going to take a guess and say you two haven't even begun planning for the reception yet. It's just like you to leave everything to the last minute. But, lucky for you, I'm something of an expert at these arrangements. And I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but I happen to be friends with one _Mr. John Lennon_." He gave them a sharp look. "And I just may be able to get him to bring his band along, if you say the word. What do you think about _that_?" He waited, then added helpfully, "They're called the Beatles."

"Really, the Beatles?" Rachel breathed, bringing her hand up to her heart. "I don't know what to say, Pete... that would be amazing!" She seemed genuinely excited by the prospect. Santana looked at her like she was crazy.

"And last but not least," Pete said, consulting his checklist. "Let's talk about the honeymoon."

"Oh God, let's _not_," Santana said, miserable. And though Brittany had of late developed something of a benign tolerance for the entire charade of this engagement, she also seemed less than thrilled by the suggestion.

Ignoring her, Pete continued. "If you'll permit me to make the reservations, I know of the perfect little inn in Vermont. They give you a discount if you help milk the cows, ha! I think Ruby would agree with me that it's worth it... we spent quite the weekend there during the Truman administration. Those were some crazy days, eh?" He looked at Brittany fondly.

"Definitely," she agreed. "But... I don't know. I don't think they would like it. I think maybe they should just skip the honeymoon. They can spend the money on a subscription to Cat Fancy magazine. And maybe some long-sleeved flannel pajamas."

"Skip the honeymoon!" he said, appalled. "Ruby, I'm surprised at you. You loved that inn!" To Santana, he added, "The beds are shaped like hearts. And you know what else? They _vibrate_."

"Oh, that sounds so romantic!" Rachel said.

"_O-kaaaay_, you know what, I can't do this anymore," Santana blurted out. "Enough is enough." She backed up and looked around, like an actress suddenly breaking character on stage. Everyone stared at her in surprise. But she couldn't help it... she felt like something had snapped. Maybe it was the impatience of the moment, maybe it was the lingering afternoon's anxiety, maybe it was the dread of the evening still in front of her, of the morbid event they were headed for. Tonight of all nights, she couldn't bear this farce for another second.

"Santana, what... what are you doing?" Rachel said quietly, looking worried.

"Pete," she said, "We need to tell you something. I'm really sorry to have to do it this way, but it's got to be done, okay? We can't keep this shit up forever." She moved closer to him again, speaking with emphasis. "My name is not Olive. It's Santana Lopez, and I am _not _your aunt! And this?" she said, indicating Rachel, "Is not your aunt Greta. Her name is Rachel Berry... and despite the fact that she's possibly the gayest straight person to ever walk the earth, the two of us are not together! Although... I'm starting to think maybe she _wants _us to be," she added, at which Rachel rolled her eyes a bit and looked uncomfortable.

Pete began to protest, but she kept going. "In fact, not only are we not together, but _this _is my girlfriend," she said, pulling Brittany forward. "And her name isn't Ruby, it's Brittany. She never opened a beauty parlor. She doesn't have a son! And not only was she not alive during the Truman administration, I'm pretty sure even her _parents _weren't alive during the Truman administration."

She looked back at Kurt, who seemed to be trying to shrink into the shadows. "Oh, and your Mr. Wexler? He's actually just a gay kid from Ohio who thinks writing a musical about his uneventful life is a capital idea. And if he _ever _had any desire to teach the third grade, I'm pretty sure that you've succeeded in scaring him away from it forever." She paused, out of breath. "So... that's who we really are. I just... think it's past time we let you know the truth."

But in the awful stillness that followed her outburst, she had plenty of time to reconsider the wisdom of that idea. The shocked silence from Kurt, Brittany, and Rachel was worrying, but it was the look on Pete's face that made her begin to wonder what the hell she had just done. It was a mix of bewilderment and hurt, and just a slight tinge of panic as he appeared to be trying to grasp the ramifications of what she'd told him. He looked around at all of them, mystified, and the disorientation seemed to be growing.

"Oh God..." Kurt said under his breath. "Fix it. _Fix it_."

"Santana, please," Brittany agreed, looking alarmed.

_Shit_. She knew they were right. Even if they hadn't said anything, she would have come to the same conclusion. The expression on his face was too horrible to behold. This wasn't what she'd wanted. She frantically began trying to think of a way to undo it. After a few more seconds of growing remorse, she let her breath out in an awkward burst of a laugh. "April Fool's," she said, with a tentative shrug. "I was just messing with you, Pete." _ Please let it work. Please let it work. _

The other three attempted to help her out, chiming in after a brief pause with their own stagey laughs, Rachel's the loudest of all.

Still confused, but with his expression brightening, Pete gave her a questioning look. "April Fool's? But I thought it was still March?"

"Well, yeah... it is," she told him, amazed as always that he could keep track of the month, but not the year. "But you know me, I like to get a jump start on everyone else."

He considered this, and by pure luck, it must have rung true. Finally, to everyone's relief, he laughed, slapping his knee. "You really got me good, Aunt Olive. I tell you... for a second there, I thought I must have been going crazy!"

"Yeah, sorry," she said, still trying to make light of the whole thing. "I didn't mean to make you feel crazy. You're just as sane as any of us." In a weird way, she felt there was a grain of truth in this. "And besides that, we're..." she glanced at Rachel, wearily. "We're so glad we're your aunts. Right, _Greta_?"

"Absolutely," she beamed, hanging off Santana's arm. "So glad. We're so proud of you."

Santana glanced over at Brittany, who managed to look both annoyed and relieved at the same time.

Now Pete sighed and leaned back in his chair, basking in the glow of their approval. "Aunt Olive, you always did enjoy yourself a good prank," he reminisced. "Do you recall the fellow who worked at the ice cream parlor, when I was about ten or so? The blockhead used to pat Aunt Greta on the fanny, even though she asked him not to, every time. So one day you'd had enough and you went and told his gal that you were carrying his baby... and so she went in there and caused such a ruckus that she got him fired. Ha!" He considered, admiring. "I suppose some would say that was more than a prank, though."

Santana shifted her gaze to the side a bit, as if believing herself judged for this revenge she hadn't committed. Feeling oddly defensive, she said, "Well, it sounds like he deserved it."

"We used to go to that ice cream parlor every night during the summer, remember? It was down on the town square. You'd get me a peanut butter milkshake, and we'd go and sit on the benches, right near the water. Aunt Greta would sing songs from Show Boat, and we'd watch the barges and the boats on the lake, and you'd complain about the mosquitoes. There was no place I'd rather be." His gaze was faraway, as thought he'd forgotten they were even there.

All three of them seemed moved by his obvious joy in the memory. Rachel gave him a wistful smile. "It's amazing that you can remember all that."

"How could I forget?" he asked. "We always had the place to ourselves, because..." A shadow crossed his face. "Because no one wanted to sit near us. You thought I didn't notice that, didn't you? But I did. I noticed all kinds of things. I knew what they said about you. I knew how they treated you both. And yet... you never seemed to let it get to you. Or maybe you just didn't let me see it, I don't know. But I've always wondered... What on earth made you stay in that town? How could you have been so brave?" He looked at them now, coming back to his surroundings.

But of course, they had no answer to these questions. After a few seconds, he seemed to realize this. "Ah, well," he said with a tone of finality. "Things are different now. That's all that matters. The wedding will make it all worth it."

Hesitantly, not wanting to intrude on his nostalgia, Brittany stepped forward and popped open the Saturday slot on his pill tray. She shook them out and tried to hand them to him. "It's time to take these now, okay?"

He glanced at them made a dismissive gesture. "Poison."

"Pete, come on," she pleaded. "You remember what the doctor said. I was there, I heard her. You have to take them every day." She thought for a second, then said, "If not for me, then do it for Herman."

"I'll tell you what," he said, bargaining with her. "Bring me a milkshake, and I'll take them. Peanut butter!" He smiled fondly, peering into the past again. "I've got a craving."

Brittany sighed. "Fine. But you _have _to take them as soon as we get back." She replaced the pills in the slot and snapped it shut. Before she moved away, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips in a gallant gesture.

"You're too good to me, Ruby."

She smiled. "I know."

"That reminds me... I've got something for you, around here somewhere." He readjusted his glasses on his nose, and patted his bathrobe pockets, squinting around him. "I hope it's not under the chair."

Checking her watch, Rachel said, "You know what, Pete, we really have to go. Maybe we can look for it later?"

"Go, go then," he said, waving his hand at them. "Always in a rush."

He settled back into the chair and seemed ready to drift off to sleep again, so they left him to his memories. As they reached the front door, though, he couldn't resist calling out, "Give that honeymoon some thought! It's not every day you get to use a vibrating bed!"

Santana shuddered, glad to be out of the building. But her relief was short-lived, because now they had to face what was likely to be a very depressing event, and they all grew more serious as they walked toward the subway station.

In Manhattan again, outside the main NYADA building, Rachel stopped to wait for Jesse, who was running late but was supposed to meet her there. The rest of them continued on in. Santana paused briefly just outside the banquet room, bracing herself. She had a strong urge to take Brittany's hand, but the very fact that the urge was so strong made her, perversely, force herself to ignore it.

The two of them stepped into the room just behind Kurt, who promptly left them in order to search for Eli. Santana looked around, dreading what she would see. But it wasn't quite what she'd feared, to her relief. Though the room certainly lacked the festive appearance it normally wore for dances, she didn't see the gloomy darkness and shrines made of flowers and teddy bears she'd been halfway expecting. There were no groups of people with arms slung around each other, candles aloft, tears streaming down their faces - at least not yet, thank God. It seemed to be a sober, restrained affair, by NYADA standards. People were dressed as if for a funeral, and they stood in small clusters, talking quietly, sipping from drinks. Santana saw quite a few familiar faces, but there were plenty of unfamiliar ones too. Word must have gotten out, because many of these students and teachers seemed to be from other schools.

"Oh praise the baby Jesus, there's a bar," she muttered, scanning the room. In the dim light, the bottles of alcohol glowed enticingly. She felt an immediate desire to head toward them. But Brittany's attention seemed to be caught by something on the other side of the room.

"I think I see Allison."

Santana followed her gaze. "Well, _she _ought to be right in her element. Everyone's serious and miserable... this must be like Christmas for her."

Brittany smiled a little. "She's not _that _bad." For the past few weeks she'd been giving Allison secret dance lessons, and seemed to have developed a mild fondness for her. "She's mostly just awkward. And it's not her fault she doesn't have a sense of humor, because that's genetic." She lowered her voice. "Did you know she's related to the royal family?"

Giving her a skeptical look, Santana said, "Did she tell you that?"

"No. But she didn't have to, it's obvious. You can tell by the way she always walks like she hasn't pooped in a week."

"Okay, well... while you catch up with the princess, I think I'm gonna hit the bar. You want anything to drink?"

She considered, but shook her head. "Not yet." She looked at Santana closely and started to say something else, but then pressed her lips together, stopping herself. Maybe she was remembering her request from earlier, the one about not talking. "Meet you back here?"

"Yeah," she agreed. She watched Brittany walk away, then turned and headed toward the bar, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who might want to stop and chat. Not that she had a reputation for being particularly approachable, but there were at least a few people who she was on good terms with. Tonight, though, she didn't feel like mingling with any of them. Not until she'd had at least one drink.

There was a man in an expensive-looking suit ahead of her at the bar, and she waited until he'd gotten his martini and moved off. He let his eyes rove over her appreciatively as he passed, the kind of attention that both irritated and flattered her in equal measures. She knew the kind of power she could wield. It was nice to be reminded that she still had it, even if she never used it again. But at the moment, there was only one thing she was after, and it didn't require sex appeal.

She stepped up to the bar, having already decided she wanted something simple and strong. "Gin and tonic. Light on the tonic." She thought for a second. "Actually, you know what, don't even bother with the tonic."

The young bartender started to fill her order, then seemed to realize he was forgetting a step. "Can I see some ID?"

She stared him down. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Taken aback, he said, "Um_, _no? I can't serve alcohol to minors."

And even though she had fake ID with her, and it would have been no real trouble to pull it out, she didn't do it. Confronting him came more naturally. "Ohh,_ I _see. That's interesting. Because... correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't all the money taken in at this gruesome little sock hop tonight go straight to charity... including to the family of that poor girl who offed herself?"

The bartender was confused. "Of course. That's why they're charging."

"And doesn't that mean that by denying a paying customer the opportunity to contribute to such a worthy cause, you're sort of putting yourself in the role of... charity cockblock?"

He didn't seem to be following her reasoning, but he looked nervous all the same.

As if she'd just thought of the possibility, she said, "Hold up... did somebody _send _you here?" She leaned forward and peered at him, suspicious. "Unbelievable. Who was it? The Westboro Baptist Church, maybe? Those uptight sadistic brood sows from the Million Moms group? Because I have to tell you, from where I'm standing, this looks like a major homophobic conspiracy."

"No one _sent _me," the guy said, alarmed. "I work for the caterer!"

Ignoring this, she went on. "You know what, I bet the media would be interested in this. I mean, one of New York City's top theater schools, attempting to sabotage gay-youth activism and fundraising? Sounds like a pretty big story to me." She pulled out her phone. "In fact, now that I think of it, I just might have the number for GLAAD right here handy... Maybe I should just give them a little ringy-ding, have them send someone down to investigate..."

"All right," he said hastily, getting a bottle from the behind the bar. "Look, here's your gin. Just... don't call GLAAD."

Smugly, she put her phone away and watched as he slid the glass over to her. "Can I get a lime?"

Restraining himself from saying anything else, he plunked a wedge of lime into the liquor.

"Thank you," she said, dimples flashing. After a few seconds of inner debate, she laid down a fifty-dollar bill. "And keep the change."

There. She'd done her part for the cause, she'd given her donation. Now no one could accuse her of being heartless. Though, in truth, it was her precisely her heart that was threatening to give her all too much trouble, if she would let it. Which she wouldn't.

She moved away from the bar a little, then downed half the drink in one go, closing her eyes for a second to relish the soothing burn of it. When she opened them, Kurt was standing there. He raised his eyebrows a bit.

"What?" She was so not in the mood for him right now. Instead of making her feel better, like it normally would have, the little tiff with the bartender had only made her more edgy.

"I couldn't help overhearing," he said. "GLAAD? _Really_?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

He seemed to get a certain ironic enjoyment from what he'd witnessed, but gradually his expression grew more serious, like he had something he wanted to get off his chest. "Santana..." he began.

She held up a hand, interrupting him. "Okay, let me just stop you right there, queer-Jiminy Cricket. Because whatever little pep talk you feel like you need to deliver unto me, I _don't_ need to hear it. So why don't you just go ahead and climb down off your glittery, sequined soapbox... and in return, I will try my hardest not to bring up the fact that those shoes look like something a gay clown would wear to a tiger birthday at Siegfried and Roy's."

He sighed, already weary. "Believe me, a _pep talk_ is the last thing I would ever attempt to give you, all right? It would be like... trying to convince a crocodile to join PETA." She rolled her eyes, but he continued. "All I wanted to say is that... I get it. I know how hard it is to be here. You know, this isn't exactly my idea of an enjoyable evening, either. Personally, I'd rather suffer through _Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties _with Brittany again than be here."

"Then why the hell _are _we here, Kurt?" She tried to keep her voice at a reasonable pitch, though it wasn't easy. "This whole thing is bullshit, and we both know it. None of these people knew that girl. They don't know what she went through... they don't know what she was thinking when she..." She stopped, unable to go further. "It's _bullshit_."

"We're here because it's what people do. We congregate... we give money... we try to figure out why it happened and how we can keep it from happening again. It's only natural. And it makes people feel better."

"Yeah, well maybe they _shouldn't _feel better," she said, savagely. "Did you ever think of that?" After taking another swig from her drink, she added, "And by the way, I don't think it's natural. I think it's sick and twisted." He watched her, not replying, and she continued. "That guy in front of me, at the bar? I heard him ask for a receipt. You know why? So he can deduct this from his taxes. _That's_ what that girl is to him. A charitable tax deduction."

When Kurt finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice. "These people aren't who you're really angry at, Santana."

She started to ask him who she _was _angry at, then, since he apparently knew everything. Because at the moment, she wasn't entirely sure she had the answer. But before she could manage to get the words out, a voice cut into their conversation, the question like some returning nightmare from the past.

"Are you the lesbian cheerleader?"

Dismayed, she turned around. There were two girls standing there, most likely high school students judging by their uniform jackets and plaid skirts, and young ones at that - no more than fifteen or sixteen. They were looking at her with a mix of curiosity and awe.

"I'm... I'm sorry, _what_?" She thought she must have heard them wrong. Kurt seemed stunned as well.

One of them, a disturbingly pale girl with short, dyed-black hair, nudged the other one. "It's definitely her," she muttered.

"We go to school in New Jersey, but we saw that political ad online last year," the other girl said. "Everyone was talking about it. It was so terrible."

"Yeah, we donated money for you," the pale one said, proudly. "For your legal fund. Did you ever get it?"

Still shocked, Santana opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, _anything_. But all that came out was a bewildered, "I... I don't know what..."

But in their impatience to impress someone they obviously considered to be a celebrity, the girls didn't seem to notice her discomfort. One cut in with, "Are you gonna give a speech tonight? Because, my uncle works at this school. I can tell him, if you want to."

The other one approved this idea, enthusiastic. "Yeah, you totally should! I mean, who knows about this stuff better than you do? I bet you would make everybody cry."

All of a sudden Santana began to feel as if she wasn't getting quite enough air. And was the room heating up? She realized now that her instincts had been right to begin with; she shouldn't have come. Because what these girls wanted from her was impossible. Apparently, even talking to them, even answering their simple questions was impossible. She couldn't even seem to explain to them who she was... but then again, what was the point of explaining it when they already knew? She had the strangest sense of nakedness, like she'd forgotten to wear some essential item of clothing. Did everyone here know about the ad? Had they all known all along? Was that why Polly had given her that weird look just before she delivered her news? She clutched the glass of gin so hard it was a miracle it didn't shatter in her hand.

The girls continued to wait for a response, but still, nothing came to her.

Finally, as if he couldn't endure her paralysis any longer, Kurt stepped in, clearing his throat in a stagey way. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, girls, but... I'm afraid this is a case of mistaken identity. As it happens, this lovely woman you see before you is none other than... well, my wife."

Santana slowly turned her head to stare at him, as if in a dream. Her eyes widened in bafflement as he stepped closer and linked his arm around her waist, awkwardly.

The girls watched them, surprised and skeptical. "You're married? To _him_?"

Pressing her lips together and then swallowing hard, trying to find her voice again, Santana said, "Mm-hm." Now the air seemed to be returning to the room, and she took a grateful intake of breath. "One year this May," she told them, getting into her stride. After all, she was already fake-engaged to Rachel. Might as well be fake-married to Kurt. If she could just get fake-knocked up by Puckerman, her imaginary life would be complete in its horror.

"We tied the knot before school was out," Kurt told the dumbstruck girls, as if confiding to them. "We couldn't even wait for graduation."

"That's right," Santana added. "Just... couldn't keep our hands off each other." To emphasize this, she grabbed his ass.

"Oooh!" Kurt jumped, startled, then chuckled nervously. "Isn't that the truth? Like Edward and Bella. Jack and Rose. Ross and Rachel. It was a heterosexual love story for the ages."

"It _so _was," Santana said, nodding. "I can not even count the number of times we got busted at school for PDA. But I mean, can you blame me? Look at that sexy mug."

The girls glanced at each other, and without even knowing them, Santana could tell the unspoken thought they were communicating to one another was _Gross_.

The pale one, who seemed to be a bit more assertive than her friend, said, "That is so weird. Because you look _just _like that girl from the ad."

"Well, they say everyone has a twin, right?" Santana shrugged. "I guess mine is a lesbian cheerleader. But as for me... As you can see, I'm straight as a post. We both are."

"Yes, just your average, happy hetero couple. That's us," Kurt said, with strained pleasantness. They leaned their heads slightly toward each other, like the hosts of a fifties cocktail party welcoming guests at the door, still watching the girls with fake smiles.

To Santana's relief, the two of them finally seemed to accept the story. Either that, or they just couldn't bear to witness any more of the weirdness. One drew her hand through the other's arm, and they turned to go. "Sorry to bother you, then," she said. They seemed disappointed.

After they'd watched the girls walk off, Kurt detached his arm from Santana's waist, and they both took a step away from each other, uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact.

"Thanks," Santana muttered with reluctance, looking everywhere but at his face. As ridiculous as it was, she did feel truly grateful.

"Of course," he replied. "Anytime." After a stilted pause in which they both looked as if they'd like to take an immediate shower, Kurt suggested, "How about we never speak of this again?"

"Could _not _agree more," she said, almost before he'd finished. They moved off in separate directions.

Blundering past a group of people she didn't recognize, Santana kept her head down and tried not to look at anyone. She wanted to make sure she put plenty of distance between herself and the two girls. As innocent as their questions had been, they somehow felt like a violation. She hadn't come here tonight expecting to be recognized by strangers. But in addition to that, she now had a strong sense of guilt, a conviction that she should have handled it differently. They hadn't meant any harm. She suddenly understood, from the way they'd glanced at each other, the subtle gestures of body language, that the two of them were a couple. They were girlfriends... just two scared high school kids, maybe not even out of the closet yet. And they'd needed something from her that she wasn't capable of giving them. She just wasn't that person. Brittany could be that person, maybe. But not her.

She found herself in a corner of the room, and glancing up, discovered that by chance she'd now placed herself right in front of precisely the kind of thing she'd dreaded to find here tonight. It was a shrine of sorts, the type that sprang up in the wake of any young, tragic death. The fact that it was relatively classy - no candles or flowers - didn't make the series of photographs propped up on the easel any easier to look at. In some ways, the lack of any sentimental clutter made them stand out with even more chilling starkness.

Though of course there wasn't anything particularly chilling about the pictures, on their own. She was just a girl. Dark-complexioned, maybe Hispanic, Santana noticed with an uncomfortable jolt. Or maybe Native American, with her full cheeks and piercing black eyes. It made no difference. She was just a teenage girl. In one picture she posed above a birthday cake with a pink candy 16 in the middle of it, in another she smiled hugely amidst bales of hay in the back of a pickup truck with two younger boys, probably her brothers. Yet another showed her standing with a group of teens outside a small, picturesque church, her smile this time just a bit strained, maybe; a hint of worry in her expression.

In the ones that marked her out as a NYADA hopeful, she posed on stage, and even with her limited musical theater knowledge, Santana could recognize the high school casts of both _Oklahoma!_ and _Grease_. And there, down in the corner, the one she just couldn't seem to get away from... the ubiquitous _West Side Story_. The girl in the pictures, it was clear, had played Anita. _Of course, _Santana thought_, _not surprised at all by this disturbing parallel. _Of course she did_. Feeling sick, she tried to force herself to stop looking at it. Why the hell was she still looking at it?

Somebody touched her arm, and startled, she jerked away. The now-empty glass slid out of her hand and hit the floor with a muffled clink, not shattering, but breaking into two jagged, perfect halves.

"Sorry," Brittany said. "I thought you saw me coming."

"No... but that's okay." She tried to sound normal, watching as Brittany bent to pick up the remains of the glass. "Be careful," she added. _If I have to see your blood right now so help me God I will lose it._

"I got it," she said, cupping the pieces gently in her palm as she straightened up. She looked around for somewhere to put them, and decided, with her own inscrutable Brittany-logic, that hiding them at the base of a decorative potted tree was the best option. Even in her current mood, Santana couldn't resist smiling a little.

"There," Brittany said, coming back over and brushing her hands off. Now she noticed the easel with the pictures on it, and her movements slowed. "Is that her?" she asked quietly.

Santana nodded. "Yeah, I guess so." Attempting to sound like her usual self, she added, "Or who knows, maybe they just went shopping for pictures at Suicides-R-Us and found some other random girl. It's not like anyone here would know the difference."

Brittany turned to face her now, giving her a searching look. There was no fooling her. After a few seconds of concerned silence, she asked, "Santana... do you want to get out of here?"

Meeting her eyes, Santana considered playing it cool, saying she was fine. But instead she told her the truth. "More than anything in the world."

With a faint understanding smile, Brittany hesitated, then went with her impulse and moved in for a kiss. Santana didn't resist it. Closing her eyes for just a second, she felt a brief, welcome sense of peace and stillness, the entire room falling away for the short time that their lips touched. But of course it couldn't last. Because when Brittany stepped back, the first thing she noticed was the two girls from before, watching them from the opposite corner of the room, whispering to each other.

"Crap," Santana said under her breath, turning away.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing." She sighed. "Only, I think I just got caught cheating on my husband." She glanced at them again, guilty, but then took Brittany's arm. "Come on, let's go."

Puzzled, Brittany nevertheless allowed herself to be guided toward the exit.

On the train again for the ride home, leaning against her shoulder, Santana made a strange request - she asked Brittany to keep talking.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"I don't care. Anything. Just keep saying words."

So, determined to oblige, Brittany spent the ride home making up delightfully odd stories about the strangers who shared the car with them. She told her about the group of young Hispanic guys near the door, how they were headed to their top secret Gecko Fight Club, where they pitted their geckos against each other in do or die combat, only they couldn't let anybody know about it because the first rule of Gecko Fight Club was that you never talk about Gecko Fight Club. She told her about the middle-aged woman with dyed red hair in the shabby fur coat, who, believe it or not, was heir to a Kleenex fortune, but who refused to touch the money on principle, because her religious beliefs instructed her that snot was sacred and should only come out of the nose when it was good and ready to. She described how the Persian man in the corner with the paper actually couldn't read, but he was addicted to newspapers because he found the smell of ink arousing.

Santana nuzzled against her shoulder, letting the meaningless words wash over her, smiling and occasionally chiming in with her own detail, like how the Persian guy's newspaper also came in handy for hiding his ink-induced boner. By the time they were back on their own street, walking down the sidewalk toward home, she felt a little better. But she still couldn't wait to be in bed, in Brittany's arms, the entire day over and done with.

"We just need to stop at the diner," Brittany said as they neared it.

"Are you hungry _again_? I'm starting to think I've gotten you pregnant."

She smiled. "It's not for me, it's for Pete. We have to get him a milkshake."

Santana tried to talk her out of it. "He won't even remember he asked for that, trust me."

"I promised, though."

So of course, they stopped. The place was just closing up when they got there, the front door already locked and only the lights in the back still glowing dimly through the glass. But after knocking for a few minutes, they were able to get the owner's attention. When he saw who it was, he let them in and agreed to make the milkshake. No one could deny Brittany much of anything, it seemed.

It was a chilly night, despite the warmth of the day, and on the short walk down the street to their building, Brittany kept switching the milkshake from one hand to the other, alternately thawing and freezing the fingers of each. Santana offered to carry it, but was refused. So she held the front door open for her, trying to get in at least a few points for gallantry.

Pete was asleep again, and Brittany went toward him, whispering excitedly, "Pete_, look_! I brought you something." She set the styrofoam cup down on the tray, then fished his pills out again. "You have to take these now, remember? You said you would. Come on, quit faking."

At the bottom of the stairs, Santana paused to wait. She took out her phone in order to check her messages. Though she'd had it turned off since the library this afternoon, there were no voicemails. There were, however, two texts, the first of which read, "_When one decides to leave an event early it is polite to inform one's friends!_" She shook her head at it. Only Rachel could make a text sound like something out of a Miss Manners handbook. The second, more worried-sounding one had been sent ten minutes after the first, and read simply, "_Santana_?"

"Santana."

Now she looked up, surprised at the tone of fear in Brittany's voice, a tone she didn't think she'd ever heard before.

"What is it?" She moved toward her, looking first at the expression on her face, then following her gaze down to Pete.

"He's not waking up. Why isn't he waking up?"

Santana stared at his bony, grizzled old man's form, looking for the telltale rise and fall of his chest, listening for the obnoxious snores. There was nothing. He wasn't breathing.

_Oh shit. Oh no. Not tonight... you cantankerous old son of a bitch._ Hesitant, she reached out and touched his wrist. As she'd expected, it was cold.

She drew her hand back, then slowly turned to look at Brittany, not knowing what she could possibly say.

But she didn't need to say anything. Brittany already knew. It was clear from the look on her face. It was a look Santana had never seen there before, and never wanted to see again. All the misery she'd been feeling on her own behalf since this afternoon was instantly forgotten. All she wanted in the world was to make that look go away.

Stepping toward her, she murmured, "_Baby_," and pulled her into her arms. "I'm so sorry." She turned her body, so that over her shoulder Brittany was now facing the door instead of Pete's chair. She could feel her beginning to tremble, could feel the emotion working its way up from her calm, placid depths, and she held onto her as tightly as she could. To Santana's surprise, but also to her relief, her own eyes were dry.

* * *

><p>Balancing the laden tray as well as she could (which she thought was pretty well considering she'd never done this before), Santana edged carefully through the kitchen doorway and continued on into the living room, taking slow, even steps. She lowered the tray onto the coffee table, saying in what she hoped was an enticing way, "Look what I've got here..." Straightening up, she regarded the three sets of red-rimmed, swollen, sullen eyes that stared back at her from the couch. "Grilled cheese," she added, in case they couldn't tell.<p>

When there was still no response, she separated the plates and put one on each of their laps. "Two with _actual _cheese, made from cow's milk." These went to Brittany and Kurt. "And one with... whatever the hell it is that your cheese is made from," she said to Rachel, giving her the third plate. Then she sat down in the arm chair and took the fourth plate for herself. "And one for me."

Still no one moved. Rachel raised her head from the pillow in Kurt's lap just far enough to give the plate a cursory glance, then she flopped back down. Brittany stared at the sandwich, but as if she wasn't really seeing it. Kurt kept his blank, melancholy gaze fixed on the front window, where sheets of rain were pouring down in the dark gray afternoon light. None of them had budged from the living room all day. In fact, the four of them had even slept in here last night, after the body had been carried out and the ambulance drove away, slowly, lights off. For some reason, it had seemed like going to bed would make it feel too much like just another night.

Santana took a bite of her sandwich, as if to tempt them, or maybe just give them an example, a reminder of how this was done. But nobody paid attention.

"Guys, you have to eat something," she pleaded. And the words, even in her own ears, sounded bizarre. Because this role was one she had never yet found herself in, not once in her life. Taking care of people? No thank you. It didn't come naturally to her, and it had never occurred to her to try it. Even when her parents had wrangled her into volunteering as a candy striper at the hospital, she'd only gone twice - and both times she'd spent most of the shift doing her hair and makeup in the break room. But in some strange way, Pete's death had thrust her into the position of caretaker, and she'd latched onto it with eagerness. Because it was at least a distraction from the things she'd been thinking about last night. Or not a distraction, necessarily, but like changing the channel from one shitty show to another one that was shitty in a different way. They both sucked, but this one at least wasn't so personal. Because despite the shock of the death, Pete had been nowhere present in the strange, disquieting, yet somehow familiar dream that had come as soon as she'd tried to sleep.

In it, she'd been at home in Lima, sprawled out on her bed, doing homework with the TV droning on in the background, when suddenly the campaign ad came on. She'd immediately reached for the remote control to change the channel, but the button wouldn't work. And then the volume on the TV began to increase, on its own, growing to deafening proportions. It seemed as thought not just everyone in the house, but everyone in the neighborhood must be able to hear it. Finally, the ad ended, but then it began again. Frantic, she'd climbed off the bed and moved toward the television, which seemed to keep getting farther and farther away, despite the fact that the volume was still increasing. But when she'd reached it and jabbed the power button, still nothing happened. She couldn't make it stop. Desperate by that point to get away from it, she'd headed toward her bathroom, and had just made it inside and pushed the door closed behind her when a peal of thunder woke her up.

Since Kurt had also been jarred out of sleep (she suspected he was afraid of storms but just wouldn't admit it), they'd stayed awake the remaining hour until dawn watching Access Hollywood together, even though they were too despondent to make snide remarks about the celebrities like usual. Eventually, Brittany and Rachel had woken up as well, and their day of moping had commenced. Cheering them all up had been Santana's sole focus since this morning, and the fact that she hadn't had much luck yet hadn't diminished her efforts.

"Do you want me to cut the crusts off, Britt?" she asked now, willing to do anything.

"I'm not really hungry," Brittany said, apologetic. "You did such a good job though. You hardly burned it at all."

Santana sighed. "Look, I know we're all sad, okay? I mean, I'm sad too," she said, as though she needed to defend herself. "But it's not like this is some huge shock, right? He was never healthy… and he was so, so old."

Nobody replied, and she had to at least give Kurt and Rachel credit for not indulging their drama queen tendencies. Since they'd learned of the death last night, there'd been remarkably little in the way of histrionics from either of them. Like Brittany, they were mostly just quiet and depressed.

This mood in Brittany was so unusual, though, and so heartbreaking to see. The death seemed to have hit her harder than any of them, despite the fact that she'd only known Pete for a few months. Deep down, Santana suspected the reason for this was simple - she was a better person than they were. She was less self-centered, and her heart was bigger. But no matter how natural the sadness was, Santana couldn't stop herself from trying to take care of her, to get her feeling like her usual self again.

The weather certainly wasn't helping, though. It had been raining non-stop since early this morning, and it was expected to continue for the next few days, right through her spring break, as well as Kurt and Rachel's. The light inside the apartment was dim and watery. She kept turning on lamps in an attempt to dispel the gloom, but every time she came back into the living room, she found that they'd been switched off again, as if the three of them preferred to sit and brood in the dark.

Determined not to give up, she tried to think of something else that would stir them out of their somber numbness. "Kurt, do you want to help us pick out what we're wearing to the funeral? Because I don't know about these two, but I could probably use some advice." Morbid, perhaps, but surely he would brighten up at any excuse for a fashion show.

Not today, though. "Maybe later," he said, idly tearing the crust off his grilled cheese. "I doubt it'll be much of a funeral anyway. I heard the landlord say Pete doesn't have any family. He'd already made the arrangements for himself, before he died, so there'll be some kind of service… but we'll probably be the only ones there."

These words seemed to make Rachel and Brittany feel even worse. _Nice_ _going_, Santana thought. She wasn't sure whether she was annoyed at herself or Kurt.

"Okay, well…" she tried again. "We should at least figure out which song we're gonna sing at the service, maybe start practicing?" She looked at Rachel, intending this one for her.

But instead of jumping at the idea, her eyes filled with tears. "We should have been singing at a wedding, not a funeral."

Restraining a massive eye roll, Santana didn't bother to point out that they were never going to have sung at a wedding, because there was never going to _be_ a wedding. And furthermore, who sang at their own wedding, anyway? The fact that she managed not to say any of this felt like a personal victory.

Setting her plate aside on the coffee table, she moved across to the couch and perched on the arm of it, next to Brittany. With a gentle motion, she smoothed the hair back from her brow; it was tangled and obviously hadn't been brushed today. Santana made a mental note to brush it herself. At least that would be one thing she could do, however minor. For now, though, she just sat there a minute, letting Brittany lean her head against her lap. "Isn't there anything I can do to make you feel better?" she asked her helplessly. "I will do _anything_ at all. Just name it, Britt."

Brittany was quiet for a while. She seemed to be genuinely trying to come up with something. Santana had never seen her look so sad, not in all the years they'd known each other. "I can't think of anything," she finally said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Santana leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I just wish I could make it better."

"Me too," she agreed softly.

Over the course of the rest of the day, Santana stayed by her, rarely leaving her side. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She brushed out her hair with slow, loving strokes, drawing out the process, turning it into something almost sensual while Brittany's eyes fell closed and her body relaxed. In an attempt to perk her up, she put in one upbeat, ridiculous movie after another; _Bring it On _(from her own collection), _Some Like it Hot _(from Kurt's), _The Muppets Take Manhattan _(appearing in both Brittany and Rachel's collections, oddly enough.) She wrote a letter to Lord Tubbington, something Brittany had been trying to get her to do for weeks, but which she'd kept putting off. When Brittany read it over before sending it, there was the faint ghost of a smile on her lips, which felt like a small measure of success.

Rachel finally stirred herself out of her gloomy apathy enough to help Santana make cupcakes, which the four of them ate for dinner - because who was going to stop them? They stayed late again in the living room, but tonight, eventually, they all went to their own rooms to sleep. In bed, Santana gave Brittany a soft, drawn-out, lingering kiss, a kiss that asked a question and reassured her that no matter what the answer was, it would be the right one. Brittany responded by pressing her body against her, as close as she could get, and nestling down beneath her chin. Content with this answer, and deep down maybe a little relieved by it, she wrapped her arms around Brittany's back and held her while she drifted off to sleep, feeling the warm puffs of her breath against her own neck, trying to let their rhythm lull her.

Once she was asleep, even in the depths of unconsciousness, she somehow wasn't surprised to find the dream from last night returning, the setup the same as before. She'd had a feeling, when the thunder woke her up, that it wasn't finished, that there was still some important thing left to do. And now, it seemed, she was being given a second chance. Once again, her homework was interrupted by the loud, blaring campaign ad, and once again, she found she couldn't lower the volume no matter how hard she tried. Heart hammering with a mixture of shame and mortification, she sought escape in her bathroom once again, shutting the door firmly behind her. She could still hear the television, but it was muffled now.

And now the dream continued on past the point at which she'd previously woken up, and she realized there was something strange resting on her bathroom sink. She stepped closer, puzzled. At first she couldn't understand what it was, though she knew the objects were vaguely familiar. Two identical, curving shards of glass, lying there beside her toothpaste, like someone had placed them there for some specific reason. After a minute she recognized them – they were the halves of the glass she'd broken at the vigil, or the benefit, or whatever the hell it was. But why were they here? What was she supposed to do with them?

Slowly, she reached her hand out to touch one of the pieces, running her fingers over the cold smoothness of the glass. She started to trace one finger over the jagged edge, but the noise from her bedroom now changed in a subtle way, the campaign ad switching to a different, more troubling sound. Someone was crying. She turned back toward the door, trying to open it... but then she was awake again, and the crying wasn't in the dream after all. It was Brittany.

"Shh..." She pulled her close again, rubbing circles on her back. But Brittany hardly even seemed to be awake. Maybe she'd been dreaming too. Finding Pete had been such a shock for her, and Santana knew for a fact that she'd never been close to anybody who'd died before. All of her grandparents were still alive. She'd never even had to go through losing a pet, thank God. This was something totally new in her life.

The need to soothe Brittany back into sleep kept her from thinking about her own dream, or what it could mean. But even without knowing what it meant, or why it left her with such an unsettling feeling of dread, she knew she wasn't going to let it be repeated... not tonight, anyway. She lay there for the next few hours with her eyes open, refusing to give in to sleep, watching the occasional flicker of lightning illuminate the walls of the room.

When the first pale smudge of gray appeared in the rain-darkened sky, she edged herself out of bed, careful not to wake Brittany. Exhausted, but grateful that the night was over, she wandered through the apartment, looking for something to distract her. For a while she watched TV, but the rain drumming on the roof toyed with her nerves, and she felt restless. Wanting to actually do something, she went into the kitchen, wondering if she should attempt to cook again. Her previous efforts had never been very successful; last time she'd made pancakes, Brittany had said they "tasted like anger." But then she noticed that even though the four of them hadn't eaten much yesterday, there were still dirty dishes piled up, so she settled on this chore for lack of any better alternative.

The hot water was soothing, and she let her hands soak in it, taking her time, occasionally staring out the window over the sink, looking through the curtain of rain. In the building across the alley, one floor down from theirs, an eight or nine-year-old boy was practicing early-morning karate moves in front of the TV, sending a series of stuffed animals flying across the room, then retrieving them only to wallop them again. Santana felt a stab of envy, wishing she could trade places with him. Sometimes it made you feel better to kick the shit out of something.

She heard someone enter the room behind her, and before she could turn, a warm body pressed up against her and a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind. She took a deep breath and relaxed into the embrace, the familiar scent enfolding her.

Brittany spoke against her ear. "You're up so early."

"Yeah, I know," she agreed. "I remembered these dishes were still in here from last night, and I just couldn't stand it."

Now Brittany released her and moved to the side, giving her a strange look, clearly not buying it. Which was no surprise, considering that it was a nonsensical thing to say.

"How are you feeling?" Santana asked, to change the subject. "I think you were having bad dreams last night."

Brittany leaned against the counter, considering. "I'm still sad, but I think I'm okay. I just wish..."

Santana waited for to finish, but she'd let the thought trail off. "What?"

"I wish I'd made him take those pills before we left the other night."

"_No_, Brittany." Santana shook her head, adamant. "Don't do that. Look at me." She pulled her hands out of the water and rested them on Brittany's crossed arms, not caring that she was getting her pajamas wet. "It wouldn't have made any difference. I think it must have happened right after we left. And you know what? I think the crazy old bastard sort of knew. That's why he'd been harassing us with all that wedding stuff lately. He was tying up loose ends. You can _not _blame yourself for this. Okay?"

Brittany looked back at her, wanting to believe it. After a few seconds, she nodded, accepting it, or at least pretending to. "Okay. But I wish I'd stuck around to get whatever it was he wanted to give me. I guess I'll never know, now."

That was probably true, but Santana tried to make light of it. "I'm sure whatever it was, it wouldn't have made any sense, anyway." She returned to the dishes.

Now Brittany hopped up onto the counter in one easy bounce and leaned her head back against the cabinets, watching her, obviously still in a thoughtful mood. After a minute she said in a hesitant way, "Santana, can I ask you something?"

Though the words made her nervous, the only response possible to make to this was, "Of course."

"What do you think happens to people when they die? I mean, really?"

_Damn it_... of all the things she didn't want to think about on this particular morning, that had to be near the top of the list. She tried to be vague, hoping maybe it would spur her to share her own thoughts. "I don't know, Britt."

She was persistent, though. "I know, but... I'm just asking you what you _think_."

She sighed, staring into the dishwater. For a minute she still didn't answer. "I guess... I don't think that anything happens. I think once your brain shuts down, that's it. Lights out. Game over."

Brittany pondered this idea. "Like going to sleep?"

"Sort of," she said. But then honesty compelled her to add, "Only you don't dream, and you don't ever wake up."

Still watching her with an expression that was part thoughtful and part pitying, Brittany eventually said in a quiet voice, "That's really sad."

Shrugging, Santana said, "I don't know, maybe. But to be honest, I've never been all that crazy about the idea of existing _forever_. I mean, we're not vampires. As awesome as I am, I think I would start to get sick of myself after a million years or so."

Brittany seemed to be giving this some serious consideration. "It makes me feel dizzy to think about _forever_. Like when you watch the toilet water swirl around after you flush. But... I know one thing for sure. I would never get sick of you. Not even after a million years."

Santana smiled a little, touched. "You don't think so?"

"Nope." Then, in a lighter tone, "Maybe after _five _million." She smirked, and Santana swiped her playfully on the knee with the dish rag.

Then they both paused, listening. There was what sounded like a knock on the front door, but it couldn't be later than 8:00 am. Who on earth would visit them this early?

The knock came again, and Brittany hopped down off the counter. Santana followed after her, intrigued, drying her hands on a towel.

Brittany unlocked and then opened the door, revealing two men - one their rarely-seen landlord, the other a harried-looking middle-aged man in a cheap suit, clutching a briefcase.

"What's going on?" Rachel asked, just emerging from the hallway and blinking as though she'd only woken up seconds ago. She was wearing fuzzy pink pajamas and her hair hung in two braids. Kurt was behind her in his velvet bathrobe, looking like a young, gay Hugh Hefner. Suppressing a sigh at the ridiculous sight of them, Santana thought with brief longing of the studio apartment she and Brittany had nearly ended up in, alone.

The landlord stepped aside and looked at the other man, waiting for him to speak. He seemed impatient and none too happy about being up so early.

"Good morning, folks." The man in the suit opened his briefcase, shuffled through a few papers, and then squinted at one. "I'm looking for someone named Olive, and someone else named...?" He peered closer, then showed the paper to the landlord. "Can you make out that other word?"

The landlord adjusted his glasses, but shook his head, stumped. "Looks like it starts with a G."

"Greta," Santana and Rachel both said at the same time.

The men looked up, both relieved. "That's it," said the one in the suit. "Do you know these women?"

They looked at each other, unsure how to answer. Santana shook her head just the slightest bit, trying to signal to her that it would be best to say no.

Rachel, of course, chose to do exactly the opposite. "That's us," she told him. "I mean, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well... Pete called us by those names. The man downstairs, who died the other day?"

"Yes," he said, looking relieved now. "Peter O'Shea. You knew him well, then?"

"Not really," Santana broke in, alarmed by where this was going. "We didn't see him any more than anyone else in the building did. He was just the crazy old man who lived in the hallway." But she regretted these words when Brittany gave her a hurt look.

The landlord sighed now, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But there isn't anybody else he would have called by those names? And you _are _the residents of apartment 403, correct?"

Santana shrugged a little, not disputing this.

"Yes, we are," Rachel put in. "And I'm positive he wouldn't have called anyone else by those names. He thought we were... well, he got confused sometimes. He got us mixed up with other people who died a long time ago. But he _never _called us anything else."

"Look," the lawyer said, because by this point it was quite clear that he could be nothing else but a lawyer, and probably a badly paid, overworked one at that. He addressed the landlord. "If you're willing to vouch for them, that's good enough for me. This man apparently had no family, no one else to inherit. If it doesn't go to them, it'll be the government's problem, and who knows when you'll be able to rent the place out again."

_Inherit_? The word caught Santana's attention, but she still felt wary, like this was a trap.

The landlord thought for a second, weighing the benefits and the potential risks for himself. "I'll vouch for 'em," he said, nodding. "They're good kids. Always pay on time."

"Wonderful," the lawyer said, pulling out a different paper from the messy briefcase. "Can you sign this, please?" He uncapped a pen, holding it out to Santana. She took it, and then had the paper thrust in front of her. She made an attempt to read the fine print, but she didn't have her contact lenses in and she'd be damned if she was going to get her glasses right now. This whole thing seemed absurd. But the acquisitive part of her brain couldn't help conjuring up images of hidden fortune, of eccentric stashes of gold, of long-ago purchased stocks that were now worth millions. What the hell? Might as well take a chance.

"Turn around," she told Kurt, then unceremoniously used his back as a desk, signing with a flourish the name _Olive Lopez_.

She passed the paper to Rachel, who glanced at it and then said to the lawyer, "Could you wait just a second while I get my gold star stickers?"

"Rachel, just _sign it_!"

Sighing, she gave in. Kurt submitted to the indignity of being human furniture again while she wrote her name.

Taking the paper back, the lawyer seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at one thankless task accomplished for the day. "So, then!" He looked at the signatures. "Olive Lopez, and Greta Berry-Lopez..."

Santana threw Rachel a look of disbelief.

Embarrassed, she gave a tiny shrug. "I thought it sounded more official that way."

He went on, "I'm pleased to inform you that you are now the sole possessors of all the personal property once belonging to Mr. Peter O'Shea. Congratulations on your inheritance, and I'm sorry for your loss." These last words were spoken like something he'd memorized from a textbook. He snapped his briefcase shut, anxious to be gone.

"_What _personal property?" Santana demanded.

"Guess you'll soon find out, won't you?" the landlord asked. He fished a key out of his pocket and passed it to Rachel. "I'd like the apartment cleaned out by Friday. If you can manage it, Wednesday would be even better. I've already got tenants lined up."

"Oh, wait wait wait wait... _hell_ no!" Santana said, now realizing what the trap had been. "You are not dumping this on us. We barely knew the guy!"

"Well, look, it's simple," he explained. "You don't want the stuff? We can tear that paper up, which means his property will go to the state, which means they'll send someone from the city in to trash it all. I've seen it happen plenty of times before. _Or _you can look through it yourself, decide if anything's worth keeping or donating, and throw out the rest. Your choice." He waited.

Brittany stepped closer, nudging her a little. "Santana," she said, sounding worried. "I don't want all his things to be thrown out."

The landlord was still looking at her, waiting. She restrained herself from unleashing an epic rant on him. With immense effort, she told him, "Fine. We'll take care of it."

The two men left, and Rachel closed the door after them. "This is bullshit!" Santana exploded, unable to help herself. "I wanted to spend my spring break sunbathing in the park and getting my gawkers on, not combing through some delusional old man's stash of junk. Why should _we _get stuck with this?"

"While I agree that it's a bit abrupt, I think you have to admit that you weren't going to be doing much sunbathing, regardless," Rachel said, and as if to emphasize her words, another low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. "Obviously, this isn't how _I'd_ planned to spend my break either... I wanted to participate in a one-week acting master class taught by the guy who played Screech on Saved By the Bell. But now that this responsibility has fallen into our laps, I think we should embrace it. After all, as confused as he may have been, Pete _wanted _us to have those things. He chose us."

To Santana's surprise, Kurt seemed to agree. "You know, maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea for us all to get out of here, do something useful. You have to admit there's an atmosphere of gloom in this place that's more potent than Rachel's vanilla candles. Even the parrot is depressed. He hasn't said anything inappropriate in days."

"That's because he's molting," Brittany supplied. "He just needs some privacy. I know _I_ need to be alone when I'm molting... though it helps if I'm thinking about Santana."

They all stared at her for a second. Kurt narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Brittany, I don't think that word means what you think it means."

Santana started to protest the whole idea again, because the lack of sleep from the past two nights was making her feel even more prone to argument than usual, but the look of silent hopefulness on Brittany's face stopped her. She suddenly realized that this was probably the best thing she could do for her, the thing that would distract her and cheer her up and maybe even lessen the guilt she obviously felt about Pete's death. "You really want to do this, don't you?" she asked, taking her hands.

She nodded, looking pleased. "Yeah, I do. I think we owe it to him. And who knows, it could even be fun. You never know what we'll find."

Though Santana had serious doubts about the _fun _part, Brittany's certainty settled the issue. "Okay," she said softly, then reached up to kiss her. "Let's go see what kind of heiresses we are."

* * *

><p>They came down the stairs to the first floor, rounded the corner, and then abruptly stopped. Somehow they'd forgotten that the empty chair would probably still be there. Nobody had bothered to remove it yet. For a few seconds, the four of them stood there in front of it, silent. Santana glanced back at Brittany, and seeing the sadness on her face, she took her hand. "Come on," she said gently, pulling her to the apartment door. Taking the key from Rachel, she unlocked it and, with a bit of trepidation, pushed it open.<p>

"Holy... _crap_," she muttered, peering into what looked like a dark tunnel between mountains of... well, from here it was hard to tell what the mountains were made of. Only that they were at least chest-high, and in some spots, higher. Santana stepped back from the door, looking at Kurt. "You go first."

"Why me?" he asked, uneasy.

"_Because_," she said, trying to think of something. "You're a man, don't you want to protect us?"

Rachel gave a small snort of laughter, but then looked guilty. "Sorry," she told Kurt.

Reluctantly, he went through the doorway and groped around for a light switch. The three girls followed him into the dimly-lit entryway, taking hesitant steps, and after a sharp turn, the path widened out into what must at one point have been a living room. But from the appearance of it now, it had probably been years, maybe decades, since anyone had been able to do any actual living in it.

They stared around them, shocked.

"Just think of all those hours we've wasted watching _Hoarders_," Kurt said in wonder, "when we could have just come downstairs."

"No wonder he lived in the hallway," Brittany said.

"You still think this'll be a pleasant little distraction for us?" Santana asked, looking toward Kurt but intending the remark for all of them. "I'm telling you guys right now, if we start finding plastic bags of feces, I am _so _out of here."

To Pete's credit, though, the room seemed basically clean, though with a stale, musty smell. There was no actual trash; the piles were made up of various kinds of clutter, and at a cursory glance, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to any of it. Boxes of fishing lure and tackle sat on top of guitar cases. A group of piggy banks were lined up next to a row of antique typewriters. A 1980s television rested on a 1950s television, which perched on top of a 1930s radio console. There were books and newspapers scattered everywhere, stacked on top of empty luggage and antique furniture. And more; much more than the eye could take in at a preliminary scan. It would take all day just to sort through this one room, and they hadn't even ventured into the kitchen or bedroom yet.

Brittany glanced around her and took a deep breath, as if preparing herself. She still looked a bit subdued, but now her eyes were shining with a sense of purpose. "Someone should go to some of the businesses around here and see if they'll give us boxes. Like the diner, and Angelo's."

"I'll go," Santana volunteered quickly. Even though she hated going out in the rain because of the horrid, unspeakable things it did to her hair, she welcomed the chance for some fresh air and a few minutes alone.

She went to the pizza place first, and they agreed to send some boxes over in the delivery car when they opened in an hour. Then, at the diner down the street, she struck the mother lode - they had dozens and dozens of boxes from previous food shipments that they were happy to get rid of. Of course, she had no way to get them all back to the building herself, but even without Brittany's assistance, she managed to turn on the charm enough for the owner to rouse his teenage son from bed and make him drive her. To show her appreciation, she bought breakfast to go and coffees for the four of them. At the register, she noticed a small display of energy shots, the kind that are supposed to be equivalent to three espressos. Considering her lack of sleep for the past two nights, they didn't seem like a bad idea, so she bought two and dumped them into her coffee.

When she got back, she found that the massive job of sorting through Pete's things was already well underway. They all stopped long enough to eat, but then went right back to work. Brittany was a bundle of energy, seemingly in ten places at once. She oversaw the division of items into three categories; trash, donations, and things she wanted to keep herself. It was this last category that gave Santana a few misgivings as the day wore on. She watched it grow with silent apprehension. Finally, she had to say something. "Brittany... you know we don't have room for all this stuff, right? I mean, what are you gonna do with a - " She examined the object in her hands, not entirely sure what it was. "A painted turtle shell?"

"That's folk art," Brittany said defensively, taking the shell from her and putting it back on the pile. "I think it'll look good on the cigar stand."

"We don't _have _a cigar stand," Santana said, confused.

"We do now," she replied, gesturing to a small piece of furniture that was already dwarfed by the items piled on top of it.

Refraining from further comment, Santana went back to her own corner of the room. It wasn't worth getting into an argument over. And besides, with the way she was feeling, any argument would probably have the potential to flare up into something more serious. Rather than clearing her head, the energy shots only seemed to be making her more jittery and irritable. When Rachel shrieked at a spider running up her arm, the sound made Santana's heart give a jarring lurch. Then, immediately, she gritted her teeth and wanted to hit somebody.

Outside the windows, the sky seemed to grow even darker as the day progressed. The sound of the rain was more muffled down here, so far from the roof, but they had the windows open in order to get some air flowing, and the pattering of the falling water needled away at her. Wasn't rain supposed to be soothing? Instead, she found that the gloom created a sense of perpetual early morning, and even well into the afternoon, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just woken up from her dream.

But for Brittany's sake, she hid it as well as she could. Kurt had probably been right, distraction was what they all needed. She did her best to immerse herself in the sorting process. And it wasn't all pretense; there were some genuine bright spots during the day. One of them was the discovery of a cabinet full of record albums from the sixties and seventies.

"Cool. Look at all these weird, giant CDs," Brittany said.

"Oh my God," Santana said, pausing on one as she flipped through the stack. "I think he _actually _knew John Lennon."

She passed the Rubber Soul album to Kurt, who angled it toward the dim ceiling light and read out the inscription. "_To Pete, thanks for the laughs. Good luck with your filmmaking. John_."

"Pete was a filmmaker?" Brittany asked in awe.

Further evidence revealed that he had indeed been a filmmaker at one time, and had even been on the road with the Beatles, working on a documentary about them.

And that wasn't the only surprise that the collected contents of his past revealed. It seemed that, despite the almost entirely sedentary nature of his last few years, he'd had quite a fascinating life. From a collection of photographs dating from the fifties, they deduced that he'd worked for a traveling circus for a time after high school, taking care of the animals, primarily the big cats. Handsome and youthful, and yet still with the unmistakable glint of humor in his eyes, he posed with lions and tigers as easily as if they were housecats. After this, he'd done a stint in the army, serving in Korea.

At one point, it seemed he'd also dabbled in acting, or at least had been a dedicated amateur in towns throughout the midwest, where he'd likely grown up. They unearthed scripts with copious notations, indicating that he'd played roles ranging from Henry V to Nathan Detroit, all most likely in local community theater productions. But dating from the time of his move to Brooklyn, there was also memorabilia from his many trips into Manhattan to see the real shows. The look on Rachel's face when she discovered an original playbill from the opening night of Funny Girl was so orgasmic that Santana had to move away from her, uncomfortable.

It seemed that when the acting career hadn't quite panned out, Pete had become a radio DJ here in Brooklyn, working for a classic rock station. Or, possibly, he'd given up on acting because he grew bored with it and wanted to try something new. But according to the evidence compiled piecemeal from bureaus and closets and trunks, it seemed that this was the job he'd held until he finally retired in 2004. It was hard to imagine him on the radio, speaking in the smooth, soothing tones of a disc jockey. In the time they'd known him, his voice was more often in the carping, occasionally paranoid register.

And when it came to the paranoia, they also discovered ample evidence of his obsession with espionage. There were dozens, if not hundreds of books on spying - about Cold War Russia, about Cuba, about China. There were letters addressed to various officials in the government, stamped and sealed, but apparently forgotten before they could be sent. There was even a box filled with what looked like some kind of bugging or phone tapping equipment. "Maybe he worked for the CIA," Brittany suggested optimistically. "Maybe he was protecting all of us." They didn't contradict her.

In a latched chest she unearthed from beneath a giant, empty aquarium, Santana discovered something that perked her up quite a bit. "_Jackpot_," she murmured to herself. It was a stash of Playboys from the fifties and sixties - strangely enough, this was the second time this week she'd seen some of them. But she didn't remark upon this to Brittany, who came to look over her shoulder. She remembered just in time that she was supposed to have been doing homework at the library.

Brittany didn't seem nearly so enthusiastic about the find. "Santana," she said, making a face. "You don't want those, do you? Those magazines are gross and sexist."

"What? No, they're not!" she protested, trying her best to sound innocent. "They're erotic, and empowering, and..." she trailed off, seeing that Brittany was still unconvinced. Changing tactics, she begged, "Please let me keep the porn."

Soon, Kurt discovered his own version of porn - an entire wardrobe filled with nothing but vintage hats and scarves. "Oh dear God," he breathed, clasping his hands together in a prayer-like gesture as he contemplated the majesty of it. "It's breathtaking. It's like Christmas and Easter and every pride parade in the world, all rolled into one spectacular gay holiday." He convinced Brittany to drop everything she was doing and play dress up with him.

To her regret, Santana found that the sounds of them laughing and teasing each other grated on her nerves. She _hated _feeling like this. But today, there didn't seem to be any remedy for it. She decided to turn her attention to the neglected bedroom, which they'd barely scraped the surface of yet.

While attempting to carry a box of framed pictures collected from the bedside table out to where the other photographs had been placed (they hadn't quite figured out what to do with these yet), the bottom of the ancient shoebox she'd piled them in tore through, and before she could catch it, one of the frames crashed to the ground. "_Shit_," she muttered. Stooping to pick it up, she was relieved but surprised to see that the glass hadn't broken. The last thing she wanted to see right now was more broken glass. She started to put it back into the box, but then paused, taking a closer look.

Slowly, she stood up, still staring down at it.

"Rachel."

Always keenly attuned to the sound of her own name, Rachel appeared in the doorway within seconds, clutching a broom. At Santana's gesture, she came over to her, curious.

"Check it out." She sat down in the window seat, the brightest spot in the room despite the gray skies.

Rachel sat down beside her and leaned closer to peer at the photograph. After a few seconds of puzzlement, she gasped. "Oh my God, it's... it's really them, isn't it?"

In the picture, two dark-haired women, probably in their late twenties or early thirties, stood on a fallen tree that formed a bridge over a stream. Though both were barefoot, they wore flower-sprigged dresses, and one wore a hat tilted at a rakish angle. They clung to each other as if afraid they would fall, but they looked at the camera with confidence, smiling, not really worried at all, it seemed. At the bottom, in faded brown cursive script, were the words _Olive and Greta, Ashtabula County Fair, 1926._

"Ashtabula County. That's in Ohio," Rachel said in a marveling voice. "That must be where Pete lived when he was a little boy. What are the chances?"

"You know, deep down," Santana admitted, "I always kinda thought the whole lesbian aunts thing was just a figment of his imagination. But I guess not."

Rachel continued to stare at the photo. "They seem so happy. I wonder which one is which?"

Santana gave her an bemused, slightly pitying look. "Olive is the hot one, I'm sure."

Rachel smiled a little, refusing to be offended. "You know, they do look a little bit like us. I can see why he would have gotten confused." She was quiet for a second, and then, as if confiding something embarrassing, said, "I know it's weird, but... I think I'm really gonna miss being Greta. Does that sound crazy?"

"Yes." Santana waited a second, then couldn't help adding, "But I know what you mean."

From out in the living room came a delighted yelp of hilarity from Brittany, probably spurred by a particularly ridiculous hat. At the sound Santana jumped a little, despite the obvious joy in Brittany's voice, and the picture shook in her hand. She took a deep breath and let it out, closing her eyes for a second, wishing to hell that she hadn't taken those caffeine shots. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep. More likely, the combination of both.

Rachel looked at her carefully, but seemed reluctant to say anything. As usual, though, she couldn't help herself. "Are you feeling okay? You look like you may be coming down with something."

Since this was an easier alternative than trying to explain the truth, she went with it. "Yeah, maybe I am. God knows what kind of microbes we've stirred up in this dragon's lair. And with all that spy stuff, I wouldn't be surprised if we're breathing in anthrax right this second."

Rachel tried for a smile, but it seemed to falter. She looked like there was something on her mind. "You shouldn't joke about things like that."

"Oh, please. I heard Kurt say earlier that Rhonda's coconut perfume was going to put him into a tackiness-induced coma, and you didn't have a problem with _that_." But then she looked at her more closely, realizing there was something on her mind and that she wasn't just being a moralizing prude. "What?"

"Nothing." Rachel waited a few seconds, but for the second time, her instinctive need to overshare won out. She began in a tentative, somehow troubled tone of voice. "It's just... the other night, when you left that benefit so early, without telling anyone... and then Kurt said you were upset about something..." She stopped, then started again, determined to finish despite the strange look Santana was giving her. "You wouldn't text me or answer your phone, and then we finally get back here, and the first thing we see when we walk up is... an ambulance. And Brittany, crying." She shrugged, staring down at her hands. In a strained voice, she said, "I thought... I don't know what I thought. But when I saw them bringing Pete out? The very first thing that went through my mind was _Thank God_. Thank God it was him." She looked at Santana, as if ashamed of her own words. "That's horrible, isn't it?"

"Rachel... _Jesus_." The expression on Santana's face was one of uneasiness mixed with bafflement. "What is _wrong _with you?"

"I know, I know," she said quickly, as if trying to brush everything she'd said under the rug. "It was ridiculous. I've been told I have... _alarmist _tendencies. I'm working on it." She was quiet for a second, looking down at the picture again. "Still, though. I'm just so glad everything was okay." As if glad to be done with the grim subject, she said in a brighter tone, "And also, I wanted to thank you."

Though she was still reeling from the bizarre and unnerving turn the conversation had taken, Santana managed to focus enough to reply, "For what?"

"For pretending to be my fiancé for eight months." With her typical awkward sincerity, she went on. "I have to admit, it was quite flattering. Let's be honest, even if I were actually gay, you would be way out of my league."

She gave a small laugh. "I can't argue with that."

Rachel smiled tolerantly, as if glad she could at least be funny. "Anyway. I'd better get back to work. There's still so much left to do." She stood, but Santana stopped her before she could walk away.

"Wait." She looked at the picture again, and then seemed to make up her mind. "You know what, you should keep this."

Surprised, Rachel said, "Really?"

"Yeah, why not?" She handed it to her. "Consider it, like, a memento of our engagement."

"Thank you," Rachel said, genuinely touched. "That means a lot to me. In fact, I think I'll take it upstairs right now, so it doesn't get lost." She turned to go, hesitated, and then, acting on impulse, she ducked down and gave Santana a quick, fleeting peck on the cheek. Then she hurried out of the room, as if terrified of the possible repercussions.

Santana rolled her eyes and then watched her go, mildly amused, but today she was in no mood to complain about the things that normally would have struck her as outrageous. Her expression gradually darkened as she tried and failed not to look into the eerie, somehow inevitable picture Rachel's words had painted. The ambulance, and Brittany crying... where had that even _come _from? How was it possible that it resonated so eerily with the way she was already feeling, with the disquieting dreams she'd had for the past two nights in a row? She shivered, running her hands over her own arms. Now that she'd been sitting still for a few minutes, the damp chill of the place was getting to her. She needed to keep busy, get moving again. Focus on the task at hand.

She gathered up the rest of the photographs, and, making sure to support the bottom of the ruined shoebox so that no more would fall out, she carried it into the living room and placed it with the others. Then she stopped, her attention caught by Brittany on the other side of the room. It seemed the fashion show was over, and from the muted clatter coming from the kitchen, she guessed that Kurt must have turned his attentions to that so-far neglected area of the apartment.

For a second she stood and watched Brittany, who didn't seem to notice her. She was standing on a small stepladder, lifting down objects from a bookshelf, one at a time, and then using a feather duster to clean the areas she'd cleared. Whether intentionally or not, she was still wearing one of the hats from the wardrobe; a dark red one in the cloche style, possibly from the twenties or thirties, and it was a little like the one from the photograph of Olive and Greta that Santana had just found. It made Brittany look like someone out of another time. Mesmerized, she stood there gazing at her, not sure if she was creeped out or turned on.

Still feeling darkness trickling in around the edges, and wanting to banish it in any way possible, she moved toward Brittany, like someone walking out of the shadows toward the light of the sun.

Finally, she turned and noticed her approach. "Hey," she said brightly, stepping down off the ladder. "Guess what I found? It's a collection of Happy Meal toys. And I know what you're gonna say... it's weird that Pete was buying Happy Meals, right? But, _look_... Kermit the Frog pushing a wheelbarrow! How could anyone resist that?"

Santana started to reply to this bit of adorableness, but instead, she reached up and grasped her face, pushing in for such a sudden kiss that Brittany stumbled backwards against the bookshelves, knocking over a group of plastic Fraggles.

"Whoa," she said, looking down at Santana in surprise. Her eyes took on a slight glimmer of coyness, realizing what she was after. Quietly, she suggested, "Um... do you want to go upstairs?"

"Why do we need to go upstairs? Let's just stay here," she said in a rush, reaching for her again, a desperate edge to the need. Right now it seemed like the only thing that would make her feel better.

Brittany gave into this second, hungry kiss for a few seconds, but then gently detached herself, saying, "Okay, but um... Kurt's just right in the next room."

"So? He's used to it." Santana looked around, frantic. "We can go behind that pile of typewriters. It'll only take a minute."

"Oh... okay." Brittany's eyebrows went up a little, startled. "Well, _that _sounds romantic, but..." She lowered her voice to a whisper now and glanced around the room, discreetly. "Aren't you worried about Pete's ghost watching us?"

"What?" She looked at her like she must be joking. "I already told you I don't believe in that crap."

"Maybe _I _do, though," Brittany said, attempting to sound reasonable and not insulted. "And I don't want him to think that I'm making you cheat on Greta. He's already been through enough lately, what with dying and everything."

"Brittany, that's stupid."

At the look on her face, Santana immediately felt terrible. _Oh shit, what have I done? _Hastening to backtrack, she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I didn't mean stupid. I meant _silly_."

Brittany looked at the tiny plastic Kermit toy she still held in one palm. "Oh," she said softly. "Okay."

"You know what, forget it." Santana backed up, now wanting nothing more than to erase the entire encounter. "I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well, and... I don't know what I was thinking." She moved toward the door and grabbed her jacket from the chair it was draped over, repeating again, "I'm sorry."

Brittany watched her with regret. "Wait. Where are you going?"

Pulling the jacket on in a hurry, she tried to sound casual. "I think I'll pick up some take-out for everyone, for dinner. I'll be right back."

"Santana..."

But she continued on out, mortified, not looking back. When she stepped outside the building she realized she'd forgotten the umbrella, but she wasn't going back in there for it now. Instead, she continued on down the street in the pouring rain, letting it drum on the top of her head and cool the flush of shame on her cheeks.

When she got back half an hour later she was soaked to the skin and shivering, but at least her head felt pleasantly anesthetized, the dark thoughts numbed for the time being through sheer exhaustion. Kurt was coming down the stairs as she came in, preparing to head back into Pete's, but he stopped to stare at her in shock, his eyes taking in her waterlogged, bedraggled appearance.

Wordlessly, she passed him the bag of Thai food, the paper drenched and dripping on the floor, but luckily not torn.

"I'm gonna hit the shower," she muttered, continuing on up.

He watched her, and couldn't resist calling out, "You know, it'll be weeks before your hair recovers from this."

"Thank you, Kurt," she said, with weary sarcasm that lacked the usual sharpness. "I don't know what I would do without you."

For the rest of the evening, she tried to avoid being alone with Brittany, still feeling awful about what had happened earlier. Brittany seemed to be more worried than hurt, but even so, it was easier to keep busy and not deal with it right now. They stayed late downstairs, finally beginning to see their progress as the boxes stacked in the hallway started to loom larger than the clutter still left inside. But there was still a massive amount to do.

When they finally went back up to their own place, Santana waited until Brittany took a late shower; then, when she was sure the water was running, she went into their room and, leaving just one dim lamp on, got into bed, facing the wall. Twenty minutes later when Brittany came in from the bathroom, she lay there with her eyes closed tight, feigning sleep.

She heard Brittany moving around the room, trying to be quiet as she got into her pajamas, then she felt the mattress dip the slightest bit as she climbed into bed. She gave just the tiniest, hopefully unnoticeable jolt when she felt Brittany's hand to come to rest lightly on her arm.

"You asleep?" she whispered.

Santana remained still, not responding.

After a few seconds Brittany sighed a little, probably not falling for it, but willing to pretend that she was. Santana heard the lamp switched off, then felt the warm pressure of Brittany pressing up against her back, folding herself around her. Against her ear came the warm, murmured words, "I don't know what's going on with you. But I'm right here if you need me."

She swallowed hard with emotion and used all her willpower not to reveal that she was awake. But still, she couldn't resist shifting her body just the slightest bit, back against Brittany, pressing even closer into her. She felt Brittany's arm draped over her, and her hand settled on Santana's own hands where they rested against her chest, clasping them. With a deep sigh, she relaxed into her, waiting for sleep to come.

She waited, and waited, and waited. She heard Brittany's breathing slow to its natural, even rhythm. She listened to the ever-present rain still blowing in wet gusts against the glass of the window. She checked the clock, watching as half an hour slipped by, then an hour, and then two hours. Despite the fact that she was so tired she could hardly hold her eyes open, she lay there rigidly, muscles tensed, nowhere close to sleep. She felt like a fishing cork bobbing on top of a lake, praying for something to drag her down into the depths.

Why was this happening? It couldn't be those energy shots from this morning, could it? How long could caffeine possibly stay in the bloodstream? With two nights of barely any sleep, she'd assumed she would collapse into unconsciousness within minutes. Though she'd heard people reference being "too exhausted to sleep" before, she hadn't thought it could be a real thing. It sounded like the kind of melodramatic lament her mom was prone to making.

Thinking of her mom made her long for her house in Lima; not for any nostalgic reasons of homesickness, but because of the fully stocked medicine cabinet in her parents' bathroom, where, simply by sneaking in once they were already asleep, she could have her choice of Xanax, Valium, or Ambien. She checked the clock again. 3:13. _Son of a bitch. _This was insane.

Pulling carefully away from Brittany, she climbed out of bed and slipped into her shoes. She knew what she was doing probably wasn't the best idea, and most likely wouldn't even work, but she was desperate. It was worth a shot. Quietly, she unbolted the front door and went down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor. Unlocking Pete's apartment, she searched around for the pill bottles they'd already consigned to the discard pile. To her relief, they hadn't been thrown out yet. Angling them toward the dim ceiling light, she read the labels. One was for heart disease, no good. One was for high cholesterol. Another was for chronic constipation. She made a disgusted face, putting it back. The last one was called Seroquel, and seemed to be for mental illness, probably prescribed for the dementia. The label warned that it would cause drowsiness, which sounded promising.

In his kitchen, she washed out a glass and hesitated, then shook one of the pills into her hand and swallowed it. She'd taken plenty of unprescribed medications before, despite the common wisdom that it was a bad idea. One of the perks of being a doctor's daughter was that there was a constant flow of prescription samples at home; she just had to know where to look for them. And the fact that her mother was a hypochondriac certainly didn't hurt either. So she was pretty confident that the worst that could happen was that the pill wouldn't work. If not, she was simply back to the drawing board.

But even before she reached the top of the last flight of stairs, an unusual heaviness was beginning to steal over her. Relieved, she hurried inside and re-bolted the door, and by the time she climbed back into bed beside Brittany, she was having a hard time moving without stumbling. She collapsed next to her, her eyes already falling closed, and before she could even reach down to pull the bedspread up over her again, her entire body went limp as sleep finally dragged her down into its depths.

And then, there it was, for the third time. Her bedroom. Her homework spread out on the black comforter, pencils and calculator and books. The TV, the low drone of innocuous, blandly annoying commercials. And then the political ad, getting louder and louder, drowning out even her thoughts. The futile attempts to lower the volume, and then to turn the thing off, both failing, just like the first two times.

For the third time, she moved toward the bathroom in a panic, trying to escape it, to leave it behind. She went through the doorway... and then stopped, disoriented. She found herself not in her Lima bathroom at all, but instead, in the living room doorway of the Brooklyn apartment, looking toward the couch. Three people were sitting there, staring at the TV with numb, sullen expressions. The two on the ends were Kurt and Rachel. The one in the middle was Pete.

Slowly, she went forward into the room, with a vague sense of relief that Pete wasn't dead after all. It must have been a mistake. But what was he doing up here?

"Aha!" he said, pointing at the TV. "There's two. That makes seven gays, so far."

She followed their gazes to the set, realizing that they were watching an old black and white movie on TCM. The two women in the scene strongly resembled the two from the picture she'd discovered, the one of Olive and Greta, but somehow, this didn't seem surprising at all.

Rachel gave a melancholy sigh, and Santana looked back at the couch. "It's just not the same," she said. "She was so good at this game."

"Who was?" Santana asked her.

There was no reply. It was like she hadn't even spoken.

"Remember the time she found four in one scene?" Kurt asked, his eyes looking misty with emotion.

"What are you talking about?" Santana demanded, louder this time. "That was _me_."

Still, no response. They didn't even look up.

Pete now smacked both of them on their knees, causing them to jump. He exclaimed, "Cheer up, you big babies! After all, you didn't even really know the girl. Maybe this was her last-ditch effort to steal the spotlight. You know what they say... Life is for the living!"

They didn't answer him, but they didn't disagree either. Baffled, Santana looked around for Brittany, because it was clear she wasn't going to be able to make sense of whatever was going on here. All of a sudden, finding Brittany was all that mattered.

As she neared the door, she heard Pete say, "She's on the roof, Santana." She turned back, startled, because the sound of him saying her real name was bizarre beyond belief. And now he was looking at her, even though Kurt and Rachel still had their blank gazes glued to the TV. "You should stop pushing her away," he added. "That's no way to treat the person you love."

Unnerved by these words, she still managed to reply, "Oh, like _you _would know."

As if moving through water, she somehow managed to make her way to the roof stairway, though nothing looked the way it was supposed to, and there were extras doorways where there shouldn't have been any. Emerging at the top, she saw Brittany, standing over near the ledge, looking down into the street.

Santana crossed the space to her, relieved at finding her, because she hadn't expected it to be so easy. Brittany stood in the pouring rain; it was running down her face, soaking into her clothes, dripping from the ends of her hair.

"What are you doing up here?" Santana asked, putting a hand on her damp, chilly arm. "Did you know that Pete is back?"

Brittany continued to look down into the street, her expression lost and somehow frightened. "I just miss you so much," she said. It was hard to tell whether she was crying or not with the raindrops sliding down her cheeks.

"I'm right here," Santana told her, confused.

Now Brittany finally raised her eyes to look at her, but the expression on her face didn't change. "Where did you go?"

"I didn't go anywhere," she insisted. "I'm right here."

From the street below came the gradually increasing wail of a siren. At first she tried to block it out, but when it became louder and louder, she turned and looked over the ledge of the building. An ambulance had pulled up and stopped just in front of the front door. With a vague sense of alarm, Santana muttered, "What happened?"

She turned to see if Brittany knew, but she was gone. She was now alone on the roof.

"Britt?"

With a growing sense of disquiet, she headed back toward the door to the stairwell. But when she went through it, she wasn't in the stairwell at all. This time, she was back in her own bathroom, at home in Lima, the room she'd been trying to get into to begin with.

Not really surprised to find herself there, she shut the door with relief, because now she could hear the familiar drone of the political ad again. When she turned back around, as she'd expected, there were the two halves of the glass, lying there on the sink counter like before, as if they'd been waiting for her. Drawn to them with a sense of inevitability, she picked one half up, rubbing her thumb first over the cold, curving smoothness of the empty interior. Then, slowly, she ran her index finger lightly along the broken side, tracing a jagged path along the edge of it. She stared down at it, concentrating on the way the light glinted off it, and now, finally, mercifully, the sound of the TV faded away into silence.

But suddenly a shadow fell across the piece of glass, as though someone was standing in the doorway, and she looked up, shocked when she saw who it was.

His brows were knit with that typical befuddled, innocent look. "I just wanted you to stop lying. I never meant for this to happen."

"What the hell are _you _doing here?" she demanded, the anger flaring up, like a fire running through her veins. "Who let you in?"

He stared back at her, half pitying, half judgmental. Instead of answering the question, he asked one of his own. "Why did you do that?"

"Why did I do what?"

She followed his gaze, down, down her own body. Then, feeling like she was moving in slow motion, she lifted her hands up, holding them out from her, staring at them in shock. Bright red blood flowed from both wrists, running in forking streams down her hands, dripping into a puddle on the floor.

"No," she said, more to herself than to him. She shook her head. "No, I didn't do this. I don't understand... it was that other girl. I didn't do this!" She held her hands over the sink with increasing terror, reaching out to turn the water on. She had to rinse it away. She had to get it out of her sight. But there was no water. Turning the handle of the faucet did nothing. The blood continued to pour from her.

"I just wanted you to stop lying."

She turned her attention back to him now, to his hulking presence in the doorway. "Get out of here," she said in a low, dangerous voice.

He didn't move, and only continued to watch her.

Driven by a sudden panicked fury that flared up in her, she threw herself at him, pounding on his chest with her fists, shrieking, "Get out! Get out of my house!" The front of his shirt was now soaked with blood, and still she continued to rain down blows on him, without noticeable effect. He wasn't moving. He was going to stand here, blocking her way, forever.

She woke up still repeating the command, feeling it torn from her throat. Immediately, she sat up in bed, feeling around on her arms, horrified. They were damp, but from what? She lurched out of bed, stumbled in the doorway, but somehow made it into the bathroom. Her heart pounding and her breathing uneven, she flipped on the light and examined her wrists.

There was nothing there. Her entire body was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, but other than that, her skin was smooth, unmarked. There was no blood.

For a minute she continued to stare down at her arms, letting her pulse slow and return to normal. She had no idea what time it was, or how long she'd slept. She could still feel the effects of the pill she'd taken, trying to pull her back down, urging her to close her eyes again. But she wasn't going to. As far as she was concerned, it would probably be for the best if she never slept again.

Just as in the dream, she suddenly became aware of someone standing in the doorway. Her mouth dry with apprehension, she turned to look. It was Brittany.

"Hey," she said, dazed and still sleepy. "What happened? You were yelling at someone to get out... it wasn't me, was it?"

Resisting with all her willpower the urge to simply fall into Brittany's arms, she placed her hands on the sink in order to steady them, saying, "What? No... no. I was... It's stupid. I had this ridiculous dream that we were in the shower together, and Rachel came in to pee, and she just would _not _leave. It was so obnoxious." Even in her own ears, these words sounded halting and insincere. Her voice shook just a little. "Like she did last week, remember?"

Brittany waited, as if hoping there was more to come, but when there wasn't, she said, "It's just... you seem upset. And that doesn't really seem like the kind of dream that would..."

"I'm fine," she interrupted her.

"Santana." She spoke quietly. "I'm starting to think maybe you should talk to someone. A doctor or something. You haven't been acting like yourself, ever since that girl..."

"I don't need to talk to anyone," she said, cutting her off again. "There's nothing wrong with me other than being poisoned by those nasty ass-flavored energy shots at the diner. I think I might have to sue them."

Worried, and clearly nearing the end of her patience, Brittany continued to watch her. She didn't bother replying to this last bit of nonsense.

"But since I'm up anyway," Santana continued, not making eye contact, "I think I'll head back downstairs, get started on the bedroom. There's still a lot left to do. And the funeral's tomorrow, so... we'll be busy."

"Okay." Brittany said quickly, as if glad that here, at least, she knew what to do. "I'll get dressed and come with you."

"You don't have to, Britt," she protested. "You should go back to sleep."

"I'm coming with you." This was spoken in a firm, decisive tone.

Santana met her eyes for a second, confirming that there was no point in arguing with this. She gave a slight nod, accepting it.

Somehow, she got through the morning, though she had the sense that she was sleepwalking during most of it. She kept putting things in the wrong piles, and Brittany would move them to the right place, without a word. After a few hours, Rachel and Kurt came down, and were astonished to see how much they'd already gotten done.

"Why did you start so early?" Rachel asked, confused.

Santana couldn't seem to think of any reasonable reply to this, so she looked at Brittany, who came to her rescue. With a casual shrug, she said, "You know that saying, _the early bird gets the weed_."

"Actually, Brittany, I believe it's the early bird gets the _worm_," Rachel couldn't help pointing out in school-marmish tone.

Brittany gave her a judging look. "Gross. Why would someone want to smoke a worm?"

Santana helped finish up the living room, but it began to seem as though her contributions were more of a hindrance than a help. She kept dropping things. It was like she couldn't make her hands obey her brain; they seemed strangely disconnected from her.

"What is going _on _with you today, Miss Butterfingers?" Kurt asked, picking up a pair of souvenir shot glasses that had rolled from her grip.

Flustered, she avoided meeting his gaze. "I don't know... maybe it's PMS or something."

He thought about this, puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."

"You know what, screw you, Kurt, you don't even _have _a uterus!"

His eyebrows lifted a bit, but he wisely refrained from saying more, and for the rest of the afternoon he tried to stay out of her way.

The day wore on, and the apartment gradually began to empty out. The living room was almost finished, and a truck from the local Goodwill had already come to pick up one large load of furniture. (Not his recliner, though. So far, none of them could stand the thought of getting rid of that. And since it was in the hallway, they figured it technically wasn't their problem.) Santana began to feel a little better after lunch. Or maybe it was just that the sleep deprivation was starting to induce a kind of loopy buzziness, a sensation a little like that of being stoned. She was able to smile affectionately at Brittany's excitement upon finding a box of old film reels. "Do you think these are movies that Pete made?"

"I don't know," she told her. "But maybe later this week we can take 'em and have them transferred onto DVDs. Then we'll be able to find out."

Shortly after this discovery, Kurt found a working record player, and they put on some of Pete's Beatles albums for background music. Santana wished they'd thought of it yesterday. It was strange how the simple fact of music playing could make her feel calmer, more like herself.

Toward late afternoon, she was nearly finished with the bedroom. Other than the bed itself, all that remained was a massive bureau. The top drawers had all been emptied out, but the bottom one was stuck. She tried it, then had everyone else try it, but no one could budge it from the dresser. The paint seemed to have warped and swollen, and the current dampness from the rain definitely wasn't helping. Brittany told her not to worry about it; that they'd done enough and there couldn't be much left to find, anyway. But it kept nagging at her, like a locked chest with a missing key. She was examining the bureau from behind, trying to see if there was a way the drawer could be pushed out, when with a quiet pop the light bulb in the ceiling fixture burned out. She clenched her teeth together and stood up, irritated. The rain still poured down, and without electricity, the room was dark and shadowy. She'd have to replace the bulb before she could see to do anything else.

But to compensate for this annoyance, there was an unexpected turn of events. As she came back into the living room, Rachel was just entering from the front door, a yellow manila envelope in her hand. "Brittany?" she said. "I think this might be yours. I just happened to notice the corner of it sticking out... it was in his chair. He probably sat on it and it got lost in the cushions." Kurt came over to join them, intrigued.

Curious, Brittany put down the box of antique salt and pepper shakers she was holding and took the envelope. On the front, in a sloping, shaky script, were the words "For Ruby." Peering inside it, she froze, and her eyes widened in shock. Immediately, she passed it to Santana, as if needing a second opinion, or maybe confirmation that she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.

Santana looked down into the envelope. "Holy _shit_," she muttered. Quickly, she riffled through the contents. "There's like five thousand dollars in here!"

"I don't understand," Brittany said, looking guilty. "Why would he leave me money?"

"Maybe it's your child support back-pay," Kurt said with irony.

This idea didn't seem to make Brittany feel any better. Santana tried to encourage her to embrace it. "Who cares why he picked you? All that matters is that he did. You shouldn't feel bad about it, Britt. He wanted you to have it."

She smiled a little, but still didn't seem completely convinced. "I guess so. But Herman wasn't even real. I just made him up."

"Real or not," Santana insisted. "He made Pete so happy, and that's all that matters."

"Brittany!" Rachel suddenly exclaimed, looking excited. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

She considered this. "Are you thinking that the Trix rabbit and the Fruit Loops toucan should get gay married and have delicious, sugary breakfast cereal babies?"

Rachel's expression changed from excitement to puzzlement. "No."

She shrugged. "Then... I guess not."

Grasping Brittany's hands for added emphasis, she explained, "What I was thinking is that five thousand dollars would be practically the perfect amount of funding for a small, independent film production... say, one that's already in development and that you've already signed on for?"

Disturbed by where this was heading, Kurt hastily jumped in. "Wait a minute... while I agree with Rachel that independent films are certainly worthy of financial investment, shouldn't we possibly look at the opportunities that staging a _live _theatrical entertainment could present? Something like, oh, I don't know... a brand-new musical by a debut scriptwriter?"

"Whoa whoa whoa, how's about you _both _step off, right the hell now," Santana getting in between them and Brittany. "Because _we _are not doing anything with this money. _We _don't have an envelope with our names on it, Brittany does. Or... sort of. It's Ruby's money, and she can do whatever the hell she wants with it." She turned to face Brittany, adding, "Although, sweetie, I do feel compelled to let you know that gold is always a good investment. Also diamonds. Basically any kind of jewelry would be a super safe bet."

"Um... okay," Brittany said, looking a bit overwhelmed. "I don't really think I can decide anything right now, though. It's just so weird and sudden."

Rachel and Kurt were disappointed, but Santana gave her a supportive smile. "Of course... there's plenty of time."

Staring at the envelope with ambivalence, as though she halfway wished it hadn't been found at all, Brittany said, "I kind of just want to forget about it... for today at least."

"Here," Santana offered. "I've got to go up to get a light bulb anyway. I'll take it upstairs, so you don't have to look at it." She seemed faintly amused (because how could anyone not want to look at a pile of money?) but understanding at the same time. If Brittany had reacted in any other way, she wouldn't have been Brittany.

Glad for the opportunity, she handed it over. "Thanks." With a suspicious glance back at Kurt and Rachel, she leaned forward and whispered, "Hide it somewhere they can't find it."

"I'm on it," she assured her. Then, she reached up and delivered a light kiss to Brittany's nose. She had a scarf wrapped around her hair to keep the dust out, which made her look even more adorable than usual.

As Brittany gazed back at her, there was obvious relief in her expression at the fact that she seemed to be feeling better.

Though still exhausted, and trying not to think about the prospect of sleeping (or not) tonight, Santana had the vague sense that time itself was fixing whatever had been the problem. The more time that passed, the further away she got from Saturday, the more normal she would feel.

Upstairs, she hid the money in the same secret box where she kept her vibrator, reasoning that if someone opened it, they would be too alarmed to keep digging.

Passing through the living room on the way to the kitchen, where they kept the spare light bulbs, she noticed that Monty the parrot was looking particularly sullen and depressed. He sat hunched in his cage, staring out into the rain. She could sympathize. Feeling a little silly, but not too worried about it since no one was here to hear her, she approached the cage and tried to engage him in conversation.

"We've been kind of neglecting you the last few days, huh? Are you sulking?"

He yanked out a feather with his beak and let it twirl to the bottom of the cage, then squawked in an offended-sounding voice, "The Tony Award goes to Miss Rachel Berry."

"Yeah, you don't really have to do that when she's not here," Santana told him. She looked around for something to cheer him up. "Hey, I know. You want to watch some TV? I think there's a Real Housewives marathon on today... maybe you could pick up some choice new phrases about champagne or anal bleaching."

She picked up the remote from the coffee table and flipped on the set, then started to change the channel from MSNBC to Bravo. But before she could, the anchorwoman's words caught her attention, and her hand froze.

"-marks the latest in a string of gay and lesbian youth suicides in recent years, concentrated for the most part in the midwestern and southern states. According to the local Goodland Star-News, the school plans to conduct an investigation into the incident, though local conservative Christian groups have already lodged protests regarding these intentions. And although many have speculated that the manner in which online materials were circulated violates Kansas privacy laws, a spokesman for the Sherman County District Attorney states that no charges will be filed, citing the fact that the individuals responsible for the outing were friends of Corinna Mercer. The students in question have claimed to news organizations, quote, 'We never meant for any of this to happen. We just wanted her to stop lying.'

The footage that played during the last part of this segment showed the dark-haired girl from the easel pictures standing in her bedroom and staring straight into the video camera, smiling. She wore an I Love NY t-shirt, and the clip seemed to be part of her NYADA audition materials "So anyway," she said, "I hope you'll consider me. Because I'm gonna be a big star someday." She smiled, a little self-conscious, looking like she felt silly. "Okay, that's it," she muttered, and came forward to turn the camera off.

The newscast returned to the anchorwoman, who was making a requisite sad face. "If you'd like to donate to Corinna's family or to the Trevor Project, you can go to the website at the bottom of our screen for additional details. Up next after the break, which common item on your breakfast table could be slowly poisoning you? We'll have that and more, when we return."

The commercials came on, and Santana still stood there with her finger poised on the button to change the channel, but she did nothing. She breathed slowly, forcing herself to take deep lungfuls of air, even though she felt somehow disconnected from the process. There was a weight on top of her chest, like something heavy sitting there, suffocating her. She could feel the burn spreading throughout her entire body.

She didn't know how long she stood there. But finally, as if in a daze, she put the remote back onto the coffee table and headed to the front door. She went down the four flights, her knees trembling a bit, like she'd just run a marathon.

Rachel and Kurt were just coming out of Pete's apartment, pulling their jackets on and grabbing their umbrellas. She raised her head and tried to focus on what they were saying, hearing it as though it came from underwater.

"We have to go into the city for a while, the revue director called an emergency meeting. Apparently someone has been taking tap shoes for their own personal use and returning them _without _polishing them," Rachel said dramatically. "It's quite the scandal."

"We'll bring back dinner," Kurt added. "What are you in the mood for?"

That was a question. He was asking her a question. She tried to remember how to answer questions, but the best she could come up with was, "I don't know."

"Santana Lopez has no opinion on food?" he said in surprise. "I never thought this day would come."

"Just get whatever you want," she told them, wanting nothing more than for them to leave already. "I'm not hungry."

Rachel gave her a worried look. "I'm gonna get you a Vitamin C infusion. I don't want to hear any arguments."

To her infinite relief, they finally left. She went back into the apartment and stood in the middle of the room, unable to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Brittany came out of the kitchen. "Hey. Did you get the light bulb?"

She slowly turned her head to look at her. "Um... we're out." The pressure on her chest was getting heavier. It was becoming hard to breathe.

"Oh. That's okay, don't worry about it."

But she went toward the bedroom anyway, even though it was too dark to see what she was doing. There were words running through her mind now, the voices loud, insistent, as though they were right there in the room with her. Some were her own. Some were other people's. Some came from reality, some from the dreams. They were all mixed together, stumbling over each other, echoing in her head.

_I think you're a coward. Claims to care about family values. The whole school already knows. Lesbian cheerleader. Last-ditch desperate effort to steal the spotlight. Not who you're really angry at. The first thing we saw was an ambulance. No charges will be filed. Didn't mean for this to happen. Just wanted her to stop lying. _

Just wanted you to stop lying.

She went over to the dresser and put her hand on the knob of the drawer, staring at it for a second, seeing her fingers like they were disconnected from her, like they belonged to someone else. Then she grasped the handle and began pulling on it with all her might. The massive dresser shifted a bit, but still the drawer didn't budge. It was stuck fast.

A sense of impotent rage filled her, and instead of abandoning the hopeless task, she kept tugging on it, using every muscle she possessed, her breath now coming shaky and labored. "_Come on_, you piece of shit," she muttered.

She felt Brittany behind her. "Santana? What are you doing?" She put her hands on her arms and tried to pull her away. "_Stop_!"

Ignoring her, she continued her pointless battle with the drawer. Her entire body was trembling now, and there were tears in her eyes. The dresser moved forward a bit on the wooden floor with a dangerous creak.

"That _stupid _girl," she found herself ranting, not even aware of thinking the words before they were out of her mouth. "That stupid fucking girl... why didn't she just wait? Why would she throw it all away when she was so close to getting out of there?" With a gasp of effort, she gave the drawer another jolting tug, her knuckles white from the pressure. "She let them win! _Why_?" The word sounded like it was ripped from her throat. "Why would she do that?"

"Santana," Brittany repeated, sounding more worried.

She gave one more monumental tug, feeling the burn in the muscles all up and down her arms, even in her midsection. Finally, with a jarring wrench and a sound of splintering wood, the drawer cracked open a bit. But the force required to accomplish this had also dragged the entire dresser forward, and now, the foot of it caught on an uneven ridge in the floorboards, and the entire hulking piece of furniture tilted forward and began to topple over.

Brittany grabbed Santana by the shoulders and, using her own considerable strength, dragged her backwards out of the way as it crashed onto the floor, landing on its side with an impact that shook the entire room, sending a jolt up into their legs. The drawer popped out and sent its contents spilling over the middle of the floor - more photographs, hundreds of them, cascading and sliding over each other, sending up a whiff of old paper.

There was a stillness that followed the sound of the crash, but Santana wasn't aware of it, because she was shaking harder than she had been before. Something was rising up in her, coming to the surface, and she couldn't push it back down this time. She tried to catch her breath, but the sobs were choking her. With the instinct of a hurt animal, she wanted only to go somewhere alone, to hide herself and ride out whatever storm was coming without any witnesses. She turned and tried to leave the room, but Brittany's arms were still around her, and she wasn't letting go. Weakly, she fought against her for a few seconds, but without much conviction. It looked more like she was being rocked in Brittany's arms than held back.

Then, she gave into it, because deep down the last thing she wanted was to be alone. Locking her own arms around Brittany, she buried her head against her shoulder. She still didn't understand why this was happening, but it _was _happening, and there was no stopping it. The sounds that were torn from her were heartbreaking to hear; wrenching, painful, shattering sobs. She couldn't remember ever crying with this much violence in her life, not even when she was a tiny child. There had always been the sense that it wouldn't help and that it would probably makes things worse, that it was best to push it all down, keep it hidden and out of sight. Crying was for the surface hurts - the bruised ego, the thwarted demand. Not for the deeper things, where the real pain lurked.

But the floodgates were opened now, and for the first time she let herself be swept away on the current of that buried pain; feeling it wash through her, all the emotions mixed up together, the ones she'd tried so hard to ignore the first time around. There was the shock of hearing those words first spoken in the hallway, followed by the nagging anxiety that everything he'd said was true. There was the panic and shame of seeing the ad, the nakedness of exposure. The rage that had to be bottled up after that one clarifying slap, because there was nothing that could be done with it. The bewilderment and the confusion over the fact that they all cared about her, they loved her, they wanted to help; but _they were doing it the wrong way_. And there was no way to explain it. No way to make them understand. Everything was happening _to _her, for her own good, whether she was ready for it or not, and the only choice was to submit and try to make the best of it. That was another thing that had to be put away, out of sight, because it did no good to dwell on it. It had happened, it was over. _It was over._

Then why, for these last few days, didn't it feel over? She continued to weep with shuddering, choking force. It seemed to go on forever, like it would never end. If Brittany's arms hadn't been around her so tightly, she felt like she would have come apart into pieces or collapsed onto the floor. Brittany supported her, swaying a little bit to try to soothe her, holding her through the worst of the storm. Her expression over Santana's shoulder was stricken, tears standing in her eyes, threatening to fall. But she was using all her willpower to stay strong.

"I hate him." Santana's words sounded strangled, her teeth clenched around them. "_I hate him_."

"Who?" Brittany asked, alarmed. "Pete?"

For a minute she didn't answer. She drew in her breath with a deep, tearing gasp. The muscles of her throat spasmed painfully.

"_Finn_."

Her voice hitched on the word, but Brittany understood it just fine. There was at first the faintest hint of surprise on her face, but then the opposite... an expression that said _Oh. Of course. _She pulled her even closer, squeezing her as if trying to take the hurt into herself, to lift some of the weight of it and shoulder it for her.

"Those girls the other night, at the benefit?" Santana gasped out, trying and failing to catch her breath. "They already _knew who I was_. They were complete strangers to me, and they knew I was gay! And it could happen again." She pulled back a little, looking up at Brittany, her face streaked with tears, ravaged-looking. "In ten years, in twenty years... I could walk into a restaurant, or a party, or a job interview, and someone could know that I'm gay before they know _anything _else about me. Before I even decide to say it. That shouldn't happen. None of it ever should have happened!" She shook her head, as if still in disbelief that it _had _happened.

Brittany didn't seem to know what to say other than a soft, "I know."

"I was so close, Britt. I was so close to being ready. I wanted to do it on my own. I thought about so many different ways to tell everyone..." she trailed off, her breath hitching again. "You know I would have, right?" There was a sense of desperation to the question, as though she wasn't completely sure of the answer. "You know I would have done it?"

"Of _course _I know," she said. She pulled her close again, repeating in an emphatic murmur against her ear, "I know you would have."

Santana let herself be rocked back and forth, held against her, but the force of her passion was wearing itself out now. Finally, the sobs began to taper off into a quieter, but in some ways sadder and more weary-sounding weeping. Brittany stroked her hair, running her hand through it over and over again, pressing her lips to the spot just below Santana's ear. Standing in the middle of the darkened room, rain still falling against the window, they both seemed to have lost any sense of time.

After a while, her breath began to come easier, no longer in jagged gulps. She felt drained, exhausted... but somehow cleansed, like she'd gotten some kind of poison out of herself. She hadn't even realized how long the poison had been building up, waiting for the right time.

She sniffled against Brittany's shoulder and said quietly, "That wasn't true." She pulled back again, looking up at her. "What I said before, about Finn... it's not true. I don't hate him... I _don't_." She thought for a second, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "But in a way, I'll never be able to forgive him. Not completely. I thought I could, but... I can't." She looked down at floor, bitterly, as if realizing something about herself. "I told you I wasn't a good person."

Brittany swallowed hard, still attempting to master her own emotion. "Well, if that makes you a bad person, then I guess I'm one too. Because I'll never forgive him either."

Santana stared at her, looking to see if she could tell whether this was the truth, or whether Brittany was just trying to make her feel better. But no... it was the truth. She could see it immediately. And maybe it shouldn't have made her glow inside to know that they shared something so dark, so bleak. But it did. It made her feel less alone.

Brittany seemed to consider her next words for a long time, as if unsure whether it would be wise to voice them at all. "Did he ever say he was sorry?"

Santana gave her a wan smile, then stared at her hands and shook her head just the slightest bit, replying in a whisper, "No."

Pulling the scarf out of her hair, Brittany passed it to her, as if it was the only thing she could think of to do. Grateful, Santana took it and wiped her face, then discreetly blew her nose in it.

"I don't want to be some stereotype," she said, her voice breaking again. "I don't want to carry this anger around. I didn't even know I still _was_. It's been more than a year... I thought I would be over it by now."

Considering this, Brittany suggested softly, "Maybe you never really get over something like that. Not completely, anyway."

She shrugged a little. "Yeah, not until you're dead."

She'd meant the words to sound joking, to try to bring this whole painful conversation back onto a lighter, more natural footing, now that the worst seemed to be over. But the remark appeared to have the opposite effect on Brittany. Her face darkened a bit, with something like fear. For a minute she looked at the floor, at the pictures strewn around their feet. But then she raised her eyes again and looked straight at her, as if making up her mind to ask a question she'd always been afraid to hear the answer to.

"Santana," she said, still hesitant. "Did you ever think about... doing what that girl did?"

For a minute she didn't reply. Her first instinct was to say no. To Brittany, of all people, the only thing she should say was no. Of course not.

Instead, she found herself telling the truth, letting more of the poison out. Her words were slow, halting, and she glanced at the rain-darkened window from time to time, but mostly she kept her eyes on Brittany's.

"The day I saw that campaign ad in Coach Sue's office?" she began. "That night, after you left, I was doing homework... trying not to think about it. I figured it would never actually air, you know? I thought someone would put a stop to it. Someone had to." She paused, still mystified as to why someone hadn't. "And then all of a sudden, there it was. During an episode of Grey's Anatomy. Like that show's not melodramatic enough already without ruining my life, right?" She attempted to smile, failed. "And when I realized that... there was nothing I could do, that it was out there, and I couldn't stop it... I had no control over it. It was just this thing that was happening _to _me." She waited a second. "And... yes. I thought about it." She lowered her voice even further, just barely above a whisper. "I even thought about how I would do it."

Brittany drew in her breath a little; a quiet, inward gasp, an involuntary reaction to the words she'd already known were coming. She didn't break their locked gazes, even though her eyes were welling with tears.

"But then..." Santana went on, running her hands down Brittany's arms, squeezing her hands, "Then I thought about you. I thought about someone having to tell you. Your parents, or Ms. Pillsbury maybe... anybody. Somebody would have had to tell you." She stopped, waiting for the knot in her throat to subside a little before she could go on, because somehow, this was the hardest part yet. "I thought about what it would have done to you, to hear those words. And once I had that picture in my mind? I never thought about it again."

After continuing to watch her for a few seconds, Brittany slowly reached forward, and Santana closed her eyes at the calm, soothing gentleness of the hand caressing her face. How could there be so much pure love in just a touch? She tilted her head back to receive the kiss that she could feel approaching, tasting the salt of tears on her lips, whether her own or Brittany's, she wasn't sure. The warmth of Brittany's mouth seemed to banish the damp chill of the room, and she let herself lean back a little, knowing her weight would be supported.

Reaching out with her free arm, Brittany pulled the quilt from Pete's bed. It looked like a genuine antique, probably pieced and sewn by women long-dead. But the thought of death had no place in this room at the current moment, as Brittany spread the quilt out on the floor and tenderly tugged Santana down onto it with her. Glad to let her knees give way underneath her, Santana knelt on the quilt, then raised her arms to let Brittany slowly lift her shirt over her head, in a graceful, balletic motion. She swayed back and forth a bit, keeping her eyes closed, feeling the soft press of kisses on her eyelids, on her cheeks, her nose, her mouth, then feeling herself dipped gently backwards, the cool softness of the quilt fabric under her bare shoulders.

She felt like she was in a kind of trance state, not entirely awake, even though a part of her was aware of everything that was happening. In a way, she was even more aware of it than she normally would have been. Every kiss, every touch, every sensation was magnified. And yet still her breathing remained calm and deep. Brittany's lips trailed from her neck, down across her breasts; she could feel the soft, healing heat of her mouth even as she seemed to drift away from her own body. She felt Brittany's hands knead across her stomach, felt her tongue darting out along the line of her hips. She felt her jeans tugged off, but in such a peculiarly light way, as though they'd barely been attached to her. She felt the warm, stroking pressure of the hand between her legs, moving with a soothing, healing sureness; not teasing her, not this time.

And then Brittany's mouth was on hers again, and with a supreme effort she raised her limp arms to wrap them around her. The state she was in felt almost hypnotic, but she was more than aware of the growing pressure, the almost unbearably sweet tension flickering through her. She moved in soft, undulating waves against Brittany, and Brittany moved back against her. She lost track of time, but when she felt herself approaching the peak, she knew this was different, much different, than it had ever been. Her heart wasn't pounding, her breathing wasn't even speeding up, everything remained calm, quiet... like it was happening in a dream. She felt her muscles tense up, then spasm, sending out their shockwaves of pleasure, and yet this odd peacefulness seemed to make it last longer than it ever had. She held on to Brittany, not even breaking their kiss; another first. When it was finally over, when the piercing sweetness threatened to be too much, she grabbed Brittany's arm to still her, but she clamped her legs around her hand, wanting to feel the warmth of her skin against her for a little longer.

For a while they lay there, locked together. There seemed to be something different about the room, as though it was growing lighter, but maybe it was just that the darkness inside her had lifted. Santana felt that now, right this minute, she could easily drift into sleep. She hovered just on the edge of it. And she felt almost positive that the nightmare wouldn't return, not again. But she forced herself to open her eyes and reach toward Brittany, grabbing her by the hips and hooking her fingers into her waistband, pulling her closer.

To her surprise, though, Brittany gripped her wrists and gently but firmly pushed her hands back, resting them by her sides again with a sense of finality as she delivered one last, lingering kiss. "Later," she whispered. She smoothed her hair back. "You're so tired."

Santana gazed up at her, grateful, determined to make up for it when she'd had some rest. She would make up for it so well that Brittany would hardly be able to get out of bed when she was finished. But for now, she was the one who felt like she could hardly move.

Not, that is, until Brittany raised her eyes, her attention caught by something a few feet away. "Look," she said in wonder. "It finally stopped."

With an effort, Santana raised up on her elbow to see what she meant, and discovered a bright, vertical bar of sunshine slanting in against the faded, rose-strewn wallpaper.

Driven by the same instinct, they pulled themselves up and moved across the short space, wrapping the quilt tightly around them before they sank down against the wall. Santana closed her eyes and leaned against Brittany, relishing the warmth of the sun on her face, feeling it on her body even through the blanket. It was sinking fast as evening came on, but they could make the most of it while it lasted. Through the open window there drifted the sound of a few birds singing, thankful that the skies had cleared.

When she opened her eyes again, she was staring at the cascade of photographs still on the floor. Even from here, she could make out another one with Olive and Greta, the two of them older in this one, seated in a porch swing with a little boy between them. In fact, most of the pictures seemed to be similar. The two of them, or sometimes just one of them, with a little boy.

"Oh my God," Santana said softly under her breath, as if she'd just been struck with the realization. "They weren't his _aunts_. They probably just made him call them that, for appearances." She paused, saying with a slight air of disbelief, "They were his _mothers_."

"Wow," Brittany said, letting the idea sink in. "It sort of makes sense, though. No wonder he wanted them to be able to get married so bad."

"I'll never understand how they could have been so brave," she said wonderingly. "As bad as it can be now... I can't even imagine what it was like then. It must have been terrifying. How could they stand it?"

Brittany's answer to this was simple. "They loved each other."

"Still, though. It would have been so hard. If we'd been born a hundred years earlier..." she trailed off. "I don't know if we ever would have been together." And just the thought of it, theoretical though it was, was enough to send chills down her spine.

"Yes we would have," Brittany said, no doubt in her voice whatsoever. "We would have been together no matter what. It doesn't matter when we were born."

"You think so?" she said, amazed at her certainty.

"I know so. And you know what else? If we'd been born in 1894?" She continued in a soft, unhurried voice. "I already know what we would have done. We'd have found a cabin, way up in the woods, in the mountains? With a lake down below it. And... we'd have a garden so we could grow most of our own food. And we'd raise goats, too."

"Goats?" Santana asked with a tired smile.

"Mm-hm." She kissed the top of her head. "And sometimes people would come up to buy herbs and stuff from us, because we'd know all about which ones are good for pregnant ladies, and weird old-timey STDs. And some people would think we were witches, but we wouldn't care, because that just means they wouldn't want to bother us. And maybe we'd have some horses, and sometimes we'd ride way, way up to the top of the mountain, and we'd look at the town, and we'd feel sorry for all the sad, lonely people in it. Because we wouldn't be like them at all."

The picture Brittany painted with her words was so vivid that when she stopped talking, Santana found it almost difficult to return her focus to the bedroom of Pete's apartment. Amused but also impressed, she said, "You've really thought this through, huh?"

"Well, when you're working on a time machine, you have to be prepared for anything," she explained. "You never know when you're gonna end up. I also have contingency plans for colonial days, medieval Europe, and ancient Rome." In a confiding tone, she whispered into Santana's hair, "I'm actually kind of rooting for that last one, because in my head, you look really hot in a toga."

Santana laughed a little, pressing closer against her. "Oh, I definitely would." After a minute, she said, "I'm glad we're alive _now_, though." She hadn't intended it, but she felt the double meaning of the remark, and Brittany seemed to as well.

"Me too."

They continued to lean against each other as the bar of sunlight slid down their bodies, bringing evening with it.

* * *

><p>At the front of the church the next afternoon, Santana attempted to position a flower arrangement so that it showed to its best advantage. So far there were only a few bouquets, so in order to make the area in front of the casket look fuller, the four of them had been trying different positions for the various displays of flowers. Kurt seemed to consider himself an expert on the process and was attempting to dictate exactly where everything should go, but Brittany and Santana staged their own quiet protest by re-positioning arrangements whenever his back was turned, giving each other playful, conspiratorial looks.<p>

Despite the fact that they were here to attend a funeral, Santana couldn't deny that she felt better than she had in days. Something had been lifted from her, and the darkness had been banished. Last night, she'd had ten unbroken hours of deep, dreamless sleep. And outside the church, the day was bright, almost too bright to look at, as though the rain had polished the entire city to a sheen. It was supposed to be in the low seventies today, and for the first time, it felt like spring, even though according to the calendar it was officially still a few days away. So even though the occasion was a sad one, Santana couldn't help her brightened mood. But she had a feeling that Pete wouldn't have minded, and Brittany seemed to feel the same way.

Resting her hand on the closed casket, Brittany paused for a moment in their task. Santana watched her, curious.

"He's not really in there," she said after a second.

"You're right," Santana agreed, coming to stand beside her. "It's just his body."

But Brittany glanced around suspiciously, then turned to her, lowering her voice. "No, I mean, I don't think he's in there. I think the government took him. Or maybe the Russians."

She couldn't resist smiling, but she tried not to laugh. "Well, I'm sure he would be thrilled by that."

Now Rachel came down the central aisle from the back, carrying another bouquet to add to the display, the blossoms large and purplish-pink. "I hope you don't mind," she told Santana, "But I ordered this one from us. They're orchids," she added, with a brief, self-conscious smile. "I thought he would like that."

"They're perfect," Santana said, in a rare moment of sincerity.

Brittany took the bouquet from her to place on the coffin, then, as she stared at the flowers, realization lit up her features in a proverbial light bulb moment. "Oh my God," she said. "I just realized what a vulva is."

"Well?" Kurt asked, when they'd done the best they could do. "Shall I get the priest? It looks like it'll be just us."

But no sooner had he said the words than the heavy door at the back of the nave swung open, and Mr. Bloom came in, groping around at the sudden darkness... or possibly groping around because he'd already been drinking. Following not far behind him were Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen, and then the landlord.

Over the next twenty minutes, more people from the building trickled in, some of whom they knew by name, some of whom they knew only by sight. There was the young couple from the second floor and their quiet six-year-old twin girls. There was Rhonda, looking anxiously over her shoulder as if expecting to be arrested at any moment. There was the sour middle-aged woman from apartment 303, the one directly below theirs, who sometimes pounded on her ceiling with a broom when they made too much noise. Even Wei, the Chinese mailman who'd spent his fair share of mornings dodging Pete's thrown slippers, was there, with his bag slung over his shoulder, as though he'd stopped in the middle of rounds to pay his respects.

The four of them watched the inhabitants of the building assemble, amazed, but also grateful and touched. As some of the tenants came up to the front to set down a flower arrangement or a potted plant, they stated their own particular identity in Pete's cosmos. "He thought I was his Army buddy," Mr. Bloom said to no one in particular. "Gene, he called me. You know, I was never in the army a day in my life, but somehow... I feel like I was."

"Silly mon thought I was his grandmother," Rhonda said in her lilting accent. "Always asking me to bake him my special brownies."

Santana's forehead wrinkled just a bit as she considered this remark, since she had a pretty good idea she knew the secret ingredient in any "special brownies" Rhonda might bake.

An obese woman from the second floor piped up. "He thought I was a gymnast from the circus he used to work in. It's like he could _tell _I used to be thin," she added earnestly.

"He thought I was John Lennon," said the twenty-something black guy who lived in the apartment next to Pete's.

The priest arrived now, and the four of them took their seats in the front row as the service began. He delivered some obligatory, vague remarks about the nature of life and death, none of which had much of anything to do with Pete. During a prayer, Santana noticed that instead of bowing her head, Brittany was staring behind them, at a wrinkled old woman seated alone in a pew, far in the back of the nave, near the door.

"Who is that?" she whispered to Santana.

She looked, but she didn't recognize her as anyone from their building. "I don't know."

After about five minutes, the priest seemed to have run out of things to say, and he asked if anyone would like to deliver any personal remarks. He waited, but nobody volunteered. Rachel looked at Kurt, and he stared back at her. After a few seconds of this wordless conversation, he stood up and, with hesitation, approached the lectern. Santana vaguely worried that he was going to make an idiot out of himself.

"Good afternoon," he said to the assembled tenants. "My name is Kurt Hummel. I think some of you know me. But most of you probably know me only as one of the loud, music-obsessed kids from the fourth floor."

"_Woo_!" Brittany cried, raising her fist in solidarity. Santana grasped her arm and gently pulled it back down.

He continued, more at ease now that he was past the initial awkwardness. "But however you choose to think of me, and my roommates, it's a good bet that it isn't the same way that Pete thought of us. Because Pete didn't think of _anybody _in the usual way. He didn't operate by the same rules the rest of us did. He made up his own. And yes, most of us probably thought he was crazy when we first met him. We may even have tried to explain who we really were, tried to remind him that the names he insisted on calling us weren't ours... even though the reminders never seemed to stick. But after a while, I think most of us realized that... maybe Pete wasn't that crazy after all." He paused for a second, and Rachel gave him an encouraging nod.

"Because when you'd lived as long as he had, been as many places, known as many people... is it any wonder that you wouldn't want to leave it all behind, just because you happened to end up in a ground-floor apartment in Brooklyn, alone? Is it any wonder that he got confused, with all of us constantly coming in and out of the building, the same way that people came in and out of his life for so many years?" He looked at Brittany, thoughtful, and then continued. "When my friend Brittany took Pete to the doctor a few weeks ago, they told her that he had dementia, and that that's why he couldn't keep things straight in his head. But I think we all know there was a little more method to the madness than that. His brain may have been failing him, but his heart knew what it was doing." Seeing her tear up just a little, Santana took Brittany's hand, threading their fingers together.

"Some of you may have grown up in New York City." Kurt went on. "Some of you have probably lived in Brooklyn your whole lives. But I know that some of you are like me. And like the three beautiful, talented women that I'm lucky enough to share an apartment with," he added, looking at them. They smiled back at him. Rachel glanced behind her at the assembled crowd, as if to make sure they knew who he was referring to. "Like us," he went on, "And, like Pete, you probably came here from somewhere else. Hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away. Maybe even halfway across the world." At this, Rhonda gave an emphatic "Amen."

"And when you got here, maybe, like us, you realized how scary it can be. How overwhelming. How lonely. And when you feel like that, what choice do you have but to find new people to love? What else can you do but make your own family? Even if that family is made up of people you never in a million years would have expected." He looked directly at Santana for this part, and she gave him a soft smile in return, feeling herself tear up just a little, in spite of trying not to. _Damn him_.

"And so that's what Pete did. He didn't let a pesky little obstacle like reality stop him from recreating his family, his friends, his whole life... right in our building. We all got to play a role in his theater. And for some of us, maybe, it was the role of a lifetime." Rachel looked wistfully amused by this, and leaned against Santana for a brief instant. "And I think we can all agree that, as irritating as it may have been at times, as much as we wished we could just hurry out the door, or go upstairs without being bothered... we never regretted stopping to talk to him. Because we knew how much it brightened his day. And most of the time, in spite of ourselves, it brightened ours too." He paused again, as if wondering how much more to say, but then finished simply. "We're all better people for being part of his life."

He moved away from the lectern, giving the casket a quick, fond look as he passed by, and Rachel sat up straighter and prepared to go to the front, since there was still one important thing left. She glanced at Santana, concerned. "If you don't feel up to it, I can do it myself," she assured her. Though she was convinced it was her Vitamin C intervention that was responsible for Santana's feeling better, she still seemed unsure about whether she was back to her full strength.

"No, it's okay. I want to." She gave Brittany's hand an extra firm squeeze as she stood, then released it. On the way to the front of the church, she stopped to give Kurt a hug as he passed by.

Facing the pews, she stood with Rachel, and they waited for the bored-looking nun at the piano to realize it was time for her contribution. Santana stared up at the brilliant, dazzling color of the stained glass, the sun streaming through it and just touching the base of the casket next to them. She suddenly realized it was the first time she'd been inside a Catholic church since she'd realized she was gay. Maybe she'd been avoiding it, subconsciously, without even being aware of it. But being here today, she didn't know why she would have been afraid. She felt nothing but peace.

The slowed-down yet still familiar chords of the Beatles song started, and Rachel began the verse.

_There are places I remember _

_All my life, though some have changed _

_Some forever not for better _

_Some have gone and some remain_

In the middle of it, Santana joined in to harmonize with her.

_All these places had their moments _

_With lovers and friends I still can recall _

_Some are dead and some are living _

_In my life I've loved them all_

In the second verse, she took the first half, alone, and for this part, she couldn't help singing it directly to Brittany. Maybe it wasn't appropriate for a funeral, but it felt entirely natural.

_But of all these friends and lovers _

_There is no one compares with you _

_And these memories lose their meaning _

_When I think of love as something new_

Rachel joined in to finish out the last part.

_Though I know I'll never lose affection _

_For people and things that went before _

_I know I'll often stop and think about them _

_In my life I love you more_

They repeated the last verse one more time, together, and Santana watched Brittany gazing back at her. For the space of the song, it felt like there was no one else in the room but them.

After the service, she stayed to mingle a bit with the other tenants, but after a few minutes she realized that Brittany had disappeared. Assuming she'd gone outside, since her own instinct was also to get back into the sunshine as soon as possible, she headed for the door. She saw immediately that her hunch was right; Brittany was at the bottom of the church steps, watching with a thoughtful expression the mysterious old woman from the back pew as she made her slow, limping, cane-assisted progress down the opposite side of the wide set of steps.

With sudden understanding, Santana approached her. "Brittany, I know what you're thinking."

Surprised, she glanced up at the space immediately above her head. "Did I finally make a thought bubble? Figures, just when I stop trying."

"No." She smiled, then elaborated. "I meant, I can tell by the look on your face." She moved closer to her, trying to engage her focus. "And I think it's a bad idea."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to be disappointed. And it's probably not even her, anyway."

"There's only one way to find out." She had her stubborn face on, and Santana sighed, realizing it was no use.

The old woman finally reached the bottom of the steps and started along the sidewalk, coming right toward them. She passed, casting them a quick, sour glance, and then continued on. Santana thought that Brittany must have changed her mind, or maybe, for the first time in her life, had lost her nerve.

But she knew what she was doing. She waited until the woman was a few yards away, her back to them. Then she called out, "Ruby?"

Slowly, the woman stopped walking, and then used her cane to help her pivot around. "Who the hell wants to know?" she asked, bewildered.

Brittany raised her eyebrows at Santana, as if to say, "See?" She approached the woman, and Santana felt she had no choice but to accompany her.

"Um. Hi," Brittany said. "I know this seems weird, but... we were sort of... friends? Of Pete's?"

"Are you asking me a question?" she demanded.

"No." She looked like she'd been chastised by a teacher. "We were his friends."

"Well that just figures, that the loon couldn't have had friends his own age." As if realizing she was going to be detained for at least a few minutes, the woman - Ruby, apparently, pulled a cigarette out of her purse.

Brittany seemed at a loss as to what to say. She glanced at Santana, who gave her a shrug, as if to say _This was your idea. _Though in all honesty, she couldn't really think of anything either. This bitch was intimidating, even by her standards.

"Okay, um...see, the thing is, before he died? Pete had really been thinking a lot about, well, about you."

"About _me_?" Ruby squinted at her in disbelief, lighting her cigarette.

"Yeah. Or, sort of. It's complicated. But he was always talking about the stuff you guys used to do, when you were high school sweethearts. And then after high school, before he went into the army." Tentatively, she asked, "Do you remember all that stuff?"

"I remember it," she said in a low, somewhat sardonic tone, blowing out her first stream of smoke. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."

"Well, isn't that sweet," Santana said, chancing a smirk. But the glare she received in response cowed her. She edged back a little, glad that Brittany was beside her.

"Anyway." Brittany said, as if determined to forge ahead even though this wasn't going the way she'd planned. "I think that time really meant a lot to him. And... he wanted you to have this." She took the manila envelope from her purse, and Santana's eyes widened in shock.

"_Brittany_," she hissed. But it was too late, she'd already handed it over.

Suspicious, Ruby balanced the cigarette expertly between her fingers as she peeked into the envelope. "Holy shit."

"That's what _I _said," Santana muttered.

"Is this some kind of scam?" she demanded, snapping the flap closed and fixing a keen-eyed stare on them. "I'm not in the mood, girls. I already got offered a baggie of magical disappearing juice by some asshole at the subway station this morning."

"He _still _hasn't found any takers?" Brittany said.

"So, what...?" Ruby continued, ignoring her. "Am I supposed to give this to a Nigerian prince or something like that?"

"No." She gave her a confused look. "I mean, you could, if you want, but it seems like if he was a real prince he would have his own money." She glanced at Santana, as if for support, and she nodded back at her.

"Well." Ruby blew out a long plume of smoke, and now for the first time her voice lightened a little. "I don't have any idea why he would have done this, but I guess if it's mine, this means I can finally get that knee replacement. Insurance crapped out on me about a year ago... don't ever trust those schlemiels," she warned them. She shook her head a little, glancing into the envelope again as if she needed to make sure she hadn't imagined it. "Peter was a crazy son-of-a-bitch. But he was a good man. I should have married him when I had the chance." She looked up at them, curious. "You girls got husbands?"

"No." Brittany didn't elaborate, having already learned that sometimes it's best not to go into specifics with these types of questions.

But Santana didn't feel like flying under the radar today. "We're together," she said proudly. "The two of us."

"Ahh." Ruby laughed, a rusty, but not unpleasant cackle. "Well, no wonder he liked you. Probably reminded him of home." She looked into the past, contemplative. "Those jealous old cats. You think it's hard to get a boy away from his mama, try getting him away from two of 'em." With a sigh, she dropped the cigarette filter onto the ground and stubbed it out with her shoe, at the same time searching in her purse for another one. "But still. Should have made the effort. Don't you believe all that bullshit about more fish in the sea. Sometimes there's just the one. When you find it, don't throw it back." She checked her purse again, coming up empty-handed. Then she gave them a strange look, as if they'd tricked her somehow. "What the hell am I talkin' about fish for? Either of you girls got a cigarette?"

They looked at each other. "No," Brittany said.

"Of course not." She said this in a tone that indicated her life was just one long search to bum a cigarette that no one ever supplied. Abruptly, she pivoted around with her cane and said, "Well, so long."

Santana had to admire the fact that she didn't even thank them for the money. In a weird way, she found that she actually sort of liked the real Ruby.

They watched her as she started off haltingly down the sidewalk, but then, as if Brittany couldn't help herself, she called after her one more time. "Ruby?"

Impatient, she turned again.

"Did you ever have a son?"

"No." She gave her another suspicious look. "I never had any kids. Why?"

"Oh." Brittany seemed sad for her. "I was just curious. Good luck with your robot knee."

She turned again, and this time, Brittany let Santana lead her away in the opposite direction, back toward the church.

She tried to resist asking her, but she couldn't do it. "Why did you bring that money, Britt?"

"Because I was gonna donate it to some kind of charity, after the funeral. I just felt too weird about keeping it. It wasn't right." She stopped and faced her, a bit worried. "Are you mad at me?"

"No." She smiled. Trying to think of a diplomatic way to phrase it, she said, "I think you did what you felt like you had to do. And that's why I admire you so much." She tried not to sound too hopeful when she said, "But I mean, you kept _some _of it, right?"

Brittany's smile was playful, but secretive. "Maybe." Then she admitted, "Probably not enough for gold or diamonds, though."

"That's okay," she assured her. "I don't need that stuff." She put her arm around her, and they continued walking.

After a few more seconds, Santana couldn't help throwing in, "But you know, I hear silver is a really good investment, too."

* * *

><p>Staring at the screen of her laptop, she typed a few words, then deleted them, then on second thought, added them back in again. Sighing, she looked up with envy at Kurt, who sat on the other end of the couch with his own laptop, clicking and clacking away as he typed a mile a minute. He made it look so easy. Though of course, what he was working on bore no resemblance at all to what she was working on.<p>

What Santana was doing, or attempting to do, after several false starts and a few days of procrastination, was nothing more strenuous than writing a letter. An email, technically, which by common wisdom carried even less weight than a letter. So it should have been simple enough, all things considered. But it wasn't. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life. And the hardest part wasn't even that the letter, or email, was intended for two people who were basically strangers. Though technically, through Kurt's help in narrowing down the uncle from the NYADA faculty, she now knew their names - Zoe and Hannah. So they weren't entirely strangers.

The hardest part, it turned out, was trying to describe in words - cold, lifeless, dead words - exactly what had happened to her in the autumn of the previous year, and why she hadn't been able to admit to them who she was when they'd first startled her with their questions at the benefit last weekend. Because now, she wanted to admit it. She wanted them to know who she was, and more than that, she wanted them to know that they weren't alone, and that if they ever needed anything, if there was anything she could help them with, even if they just needed to talk... she could do that. She was a text, or a phone call, or even a visit away. And so was Brittany, who had agreed to the idea without needing more than a few seconds of convincing.

But the idea, in the end, had been Santana's own. She hadn't been lured or persuaded or guilted into it by anyone. She'd thought of the possibility of reaching out to the girls all by herself, because it was something she wanted, something she needed, to do. Maybe, in spite of her earlier denials, she _could _be that person. Maybe, after what she'd been through, she had an obligation to be that person.

So, despite the fact that in some ways writing this email was the last thing she wanted to be doing at the tail end of her spring break, she was determined to see it through and finish it. If she did nothing else this entire weekend, she was going to make sure she completed and sent this email. But that didn't mean she couldn't be distracted when Brittany came into the room in a pair of tantalizingly short shorts, with a glass of lemonade for her, urging her to take a break.

"In a minute," she promised her. "I just want to finish this one part."

So Brittany sat down next to Kurt, leaning against him and staring at his laptop screen, knowing he wouldn't mind her nosiness. "Are you working on your musical?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," he told her in a chipper tone.

"How _is _Kip, anyway?" Santana couldn't resist asking. Kurt just made the mockery so damn easy.

"Yeah, has he met Bethany S. Bierce yet?" Brittany added. "Because he doesn't know it yet, but his life is gonna get _so _much more fabulous when he does."

"Actually..." Kurt said, as if deciding how much he wanted to tell them. "I've decided to put Kip aside for the time being. I'm working on a project about someone else right now, something new."

"Oh God, _please _tell me it's not about Rachel?" Santana groaned. "One vanity-project in development is more than enough for her massive ego."

Rachel, who had just wandered into the room, rolled her eyes tolerantly at this.

"No, it's not about Rachel," he said, as if the idea was absurd. "It's... Well, it's about Pete. His strange, colorful life, and all the people in it. And also all the crazy, wonderful people in this building. I guess you could say I had an epiphany when it comes to my artistic direction."

Brittany's face lit up with excitement and approval. "I don't know what that last part means, but I think Pete's life would make the perfect musical. And... I get to be in it, right?"

"You _have _to be in it, my dear," he said, giving her an affectionate nudge. "Who else could play Ruby?"

"Awesome." She smiled at him.

"You guys." Rachel was standing by the front window, looking down into the street. Her voice sounded both surprised and sad. "They're taking his chair out."

They looked at each other, and then, with reluctance, got up and went over to join her. Two men were in the process of hoisting the ancient, plaid recliner onto the back of a pickup truck. These last few days, coming in and going out of the building had been a gloomy experience, but at least with the chair still there, they could halfway pretend he was just in the bathroom or fixing one of his frozen dinners. Not anymore, though.

"I thought maybe they'd just leave it there, like a shrine or something," Brittany said softly. "And we could, you know, throw pennies into the cushions and makes wishes on them."

"I heard the new tenants weren't fans of keeping it around," Rachel said. "They refused to move in until it was gone."

"You can't really blame 'em, though," Santana admitted. "They didn't know him."

"That's true," Kurt agreed. "And anyway, life is for the living, and all that."

These words seemed vaguely familiar to Santana, but she couldn't remember quite why.

The chair was loaded now, and the men went back around to the front of the truck and climbed in. After a few seconds they pulled away from the curb and started down the street. Brittany sighed, a sound of sad relinquishment, and Santana put her arm around her waist, pressing close against her. On Brittany's right, Kurt took her hand, and at the same time Rachel leaned against him on the other side. Nobody said anything else. There wasn't anything left to say.

They watched until the truck reached the intersection at the end of the block, turned, and disappeared from sight.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: First off, I can't apologize enough for how long the gap has been between updates this time. Due to numerous real-life things, I had a very limited amount of time each day to write. And as you can probably see, this chapter is once again even longer than the last one, so it was a slow process. I posted the first half in sections on my tumblr (link is in the profile) and there's a chance I may do the same with the next one, so if you don't mind reading it like that, you can find it there. Also, I have the anon option turned on in my ask box now, so if anyone has questions, feel free to bring them over.

There are still two chapters left, and I want to try to get the fic finished before Glee returns. This one in particular was important to me after seeing how Brittany's storyline was handled (or rather, not handled) in the last few episodes. Of course as any Glee fic writer knows, there's no way to write a 100% sustained canon Brittany. The chapter would be 50 words long. So I've taken some of her characteristics and developed them in the ways that work best for this story.

Weirdly enough, this fic is still aligning with canon in certain ways, and I swear I haven't tweaked anything to make it fit. Every plot detail has been planned since the first chapter (my fandom friends who I accidentally spoiled with detailed plot summaries will confirm that ;) With Santana and Kurt's future plans in particular, it's just a coincidence, I guess.

Anyway, I understand if this is too long to read in one sitting. All I ask is that when you do finish it, whenever that may be, you try to drop a review to let me know if you're still reading. I hope I haven't lost too many readers after such a long break. It couldn't be avoided. And the story will absolutely be finished. I would never abandon it.

Thank you so much for sticking with me!

* * *

><p>Chapter 10<p>

_(amateur film footage begins. Rachel is wearing a long mid-nineties dress and jean jacket, and sits in an armchair with a baby blanket draped over it, a cradle at her feet, holding a swaddled doll in her lap)_

Rachel: What a beautiful baby girl you are. Even at this early, early date, only hours after your remarkably dignified yet still suitably dramatic birth, I can tell just from gazing into your sparkling brown eyes that you're going to be enormously talented... perhaps one day surpassing even myself, your enormously talented mother.

(_from behind the camera comes a muffled sigh of exasperation_)

Rachel: (_continuing to speak to the wrapped bundle_) But alas, the time has now come for us to part, and for our lives to branch into their separate courses; you to go home with the fashionable and no-doubt nurturing and supportive gay men who impregnated me with their seed, and me to go... well, wherever the fates take me. Perhaps one day we'll meet again, maybe in sixteen years or so, when I get a job teaching show choir in a town very close to yours... but of course nobody knows for sure. The future is an unwritten page, and it would be unwise for me to... to _prognosticate _upon the -

Brittany: (_off-camera, impatient_) Okay, cut.

Rachel looked up, puzzled. "What, why? I thought that was a really good take."

Coming around from behind the camera on its tripod, Brittany crossed her arms and deliberated, trying to think of a diplomatic way to phrase what she wanted to say. "It wasn't bad. Especially since the baby's head didn't fall off this time. But, the thing is... Don't take this the wrong way, but I knew your mom. She was my coach in the Troubletones, and... she didn't talk like that."

"I _know _that," Rachel said with a defensive air, standing up and replacing the doll in the cradle. "But you can't blame me for taking some dramatic license with the dialogue. It makes things more interesting."

"No it doesn't." Brittany shook her head. "It makes it sound like those boring plays in English class where people are always cross-dressing and telling their hos to fetch their longswords." She paused, considering. "But, I'm actually glad to hear you say that you want the movie to be more interesting, Rachel, _because_..." Now she looked a little excited, biting her lip. "I've been making some notes on the script, and I wanted to run some ideas by you. Have a seat."

"Oh. Okay." Mildly surprised, Rachel returned to the arm chair and watched as Brittany grabbed a clipboard and a pen from the coffee table, then sat down on the couch across from her. Since Kurt was giving himself an avocado facial and had demanded not to be disturbed, and since Santana still wasn't home from work, they had the place to themselves.

"All right, first off," Brittany said in a business-like tone, reading from the clipboard. "Let's talk about your virginity."

"I'm... I'm sorry, my _what_?"

"So I know in real life, you lost it to Finn. And when my time machine is done, I want you to know that I would be glad to let you borrow it if you want to go back and fix that. For now it's still reality, though, and there's nothing we can do about it, sorry," she added with a shrug. "But, here's the thing. As your director and as a future audience member, I feel obligated to let you know that when it comes to you and Finn? It's gross. And nobody wants to see it."

Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but Brittany continued, not giving her a chance. "So I was thinking that for the movie, what if... instead of Finn, you lost your virginity to the entire baritone section of Vocal Adrenaline? Plus one soprano, just to add spice." She looked up hopefully, waiting.

"_What_?" Rachel was appalled by the idea. "No, we're not doing that. That isn't..." She shook her head, adamant. "_No_, Brittany. Absolutely not."

She continued to wait for a few seconds, but then made a note on her script. "Okay, I'm gonna put that down in the _maybe _column, while you take some more time to think about it."

Rachel sighed. "What else?"

"Um..." she checked the clipboard again. "Oh, okay, you're gonna love this. So, I'm guessing you were probably planning to cast a human in the role of Mr. Schuester, right? Well, _what if _I told you..." She paused, as if to let the excitement build, doing a little drum roll with her fingers on the clipboard. "That we may be able to get Eugene the chimp from the Sal's Mattress Emporium commercials? I've been talking to his agent this week, and though he does have some odd stipulations regarding his dressing room, I really think we could work something out with him. But you may have to pick up the bananas yourself, because Santana and I have decided that with the exception of breadsticks we're no longer going to be eating penis-shaped foods. And I just don't want to deal with the temptation."

Perplexed, and making an effort to trace back to the salient point in this speech, Rachel was able after a few seconds to ask, "I... I don't understand, you want Mr. Schue to be played by a monkey? _Why_?"

"Okay, first of all?" Brittany said, annoyed. "Chimps aren't monkeys, they're apes. You might want to work on your ignorance a bit, because I'd really appreciate it if you didn't embarrass me in front of Eugene." She continued to talk through Rachel's eye roll. "And second of all, come on, a chimp in a sweater vest? It's adorable. People would love it. And plus, I mean... we wouldn't even have to put a lot of time into training him, because let's face it, it's not like Mr. Schue ever did all that much. We just... put Eugene in front of a whiteboard with a marker in his hand, and whatever he scrawls up there, that's our theme of the week. And if he throws his poop we'll say it's a Nickelback tribute. Couldn't be simpler."

"All right," Rachel said, as if her cooperation might hurry things along. "I promise to keep it in mind."

"Fine, but... we can't wait too long, because Eugene's not just sitting around, you know. He's a busy chimp, he's got other offers."

"Duly noted. Now, can we get back to filming?"

Brittany checked her clipboard, running her eyes down her list. "Oh, hold on, just one more thing. This is the best one. Okay, so you know how in Harry Potter, all the Hogwarts correspondence is delivered by those sexy owls?"

A bit thrown by this description, Rachel said hesitantly, "I guess so."

"Well, I was thinking, in Scene Forty-two when you and Kurt get your NYADA acceptance letters... what if we have Monty fly in, wearing a pair of glasses and a tiny little top hat, and when he drops your letters off he says..." She looked over at the parrot cage and snapped her fingers. "Monty, say your line!" Then, to encourage him, she began "Welcome..."

He hung upside down from his perch, alert now, and continued the line. "_Welcome to NYADA, motherfuckers_."

Brittany looked back at Rachel, pleased. "What do you think?"

Rachel's face was a mask of dismay. "_Brittany_! Why would you teach him to say that?"

"What, you don't like it? I thought maybe it could be the tagline for the whole movie. And we could put it on the promotional posters with, like, a bomb exploding behind it. I think it'll really get people's attention." She nodded, agreeing with herself.

"Okay, Brittany... look." With an air of reluctance, Rachel got up and came closer, perching on the couch next to her. "I want you to know that I greatly appreciate your dedication to your job as director, and... I applaud you for taking the initiative to make such colorful, creative, somewhat _unusual_ suggestions. But..."

Brittany waited, but with a downcast air, as if she already suspected where this was going.

Speaking carefully, Rachel continued. "I'm just not entirely sure that you and I share the same artistic vision when it comes to my movie."

"Does that mean you don't like my ideas?"

"No! Not at all. It doesn't mean I don't _like _them, it just means... I can't possibly use any of them without turning this entire project into a laughingstock and a farce of epic proportions. Do you see?"

She watched her, not responding to this.

"So I think maybe it would be best if, for now, we took a little hiatus from filming," Rachel went on. "That'll give us time to re-evaluate our priorities and decide if our collaboration is something we wish to continue pursuing."

With a mildly puzzled expression, Brittany asked, "A hiatus, that's like a break, right?"

"Exactly!" Pleased that the difficult part was over, Rachel patted Brittany's knee and then stood up. "After all, I'm sure you have plenty of other things you'd rather be spending your time on. Like your sticker collection!"

Brittany didn't respond directly to this, but, seeing that Rachel was preparing to leave the room, she stopped her. "Wait, do I still get paid while we're on this hiatus?"

Confused, she stopped and stared at her for a second. "What do you mean? I haven't been paying you."

"Then... who's been slipping those unwrapped sticks of gum into our mail slot?"

"I don't _know_," Rachel cried in alarm. "You haven't been _eating _them, have you?"

Slowly, Brittany stopped chewing the gum that was currently in her mouth. With an evasive glance to the side, she said, "No."

Rachel started to say something, thought better of it, and then shook her head and headed toward the hallway, presumably to begin her nightly shower regimen.

Brittany sighed. After a minute she removed the gum from her mouth, examined it critically for a few seconds, then with reluctance went to stick it on the bottom of the coffee table. But the top of the table was glass, which made the crime too evident, so she looked around for an alternative, settling on the underside of the bird cage. While she was securing it there, Monty bobbed up and down, excited by her nearness.

"Red Bull," he told her. "It gives you wings." Lately, the parrot's vocabulary had been expanding at a rapid rate, now that he'd adjusted to his new surroundings and finished molting. In particular, he seemed to have developed a fondness for advertising slogans and jingles, probably because the TV in the living room was left on at almost all hours of the day.

"Monty, you don't need that stuff, it's bad for you," Brittany said. "Besides, you already have wings." She looked at him closer. "Are you upset because Rachel didn't like your line? Because you shouldn't take it personally. She treats everyone like that."

He pondered this, cocking his head to the side. "Hello. Think outside the bun."

"Well, that's what I'm trying to do... but apparently some people don't _like _creative ideas." There was bitterness in her tone, but then she looked regretful. "I don't blame her though, not really. She just wants her movie to be perfect, I get that. I don't exactly know what I'm doing anyway. This is my first full-length film."

Monty hopped down onto his lower perch and jingled his strand of toy bells. "K-Y arousal gel. Makes that big moment even bigger."

Now it was Brittany's turn to ponder these words. "That's a good suggestion... and I agree that usually sex is the answer. But I don't think it would work for me and Rachel. I'm in a committed monotonous relationship, and that means I don't sleep with other people. Besides, if Rachel was gonna sleep with a girl, I don't think _I_ would be her first choice." These last words were uttered with a hint of resentment.

"Seriously," the parrot chimed in. This phrase had likely been picked up from last weekend's Grey's Anatomy marathon, but Brittany took it as agreement.

"Wait, so you've noticed it too?" She looked around, confirming that they were alone, and lowered her voice. "I knew it wasn't just my imagination. I mean, clearly, Santana's the hottest person on the planet, who _wouldn't_ want a piece of that? And I'm sorry, but I just don't trust people who say they're straight. They're hardly ever as straight as they think they are. Even you, Monty... I bet you'd like a lady friend, but if you saw a really smoking boy parrot instead, what would your reaction be?"

"Hello."

"Exactly. And there's nothing wrong with that. But there _is _something wrong with someone living with your girlfriend for six months and getting super close to her while you're in another state, and pretending to be her fiancée and thinking she's her bestest friend ever, and then always bringing up all the awesome stuff that happened that you didn't get to be a part of because you had to go to high school for an extra semester, and acting all superior while she walks around on her freakishly long legs thinking she knows everything about Santana when obviously she doesn't."

Realizing that her voice had risen quite a bit during this diatribe, Brittany drew in her breath to recover, and then looked a little sheepish. "I'm sorry," she told the parrot, who was eyeing her warily. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I know you can't get in the middle of it, because you love all of us. But just... keep your eyes open for me. Let me know if you see anything you think I should know about, okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, since this word, at least, was familiar and comforting. He said it again for good measure, sidling to the left and then back to the right on his perch. "Okay."

"Cool." She smiled at him. "I knew you'd have my back." Moving over to the side of the cage, she looked out the front window and scanned the street below. "Oh good," she said, sounding relieved. "Here comes Santana. She had to work late tonight." Brittany watched with a fond look as the small figure hurried down the dimly-lit sidewalk, head lowered, hands in pockets. "She looks so cute when she's all nervous about getting mugged."

"Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Maybelline," Monty commented.

"Oh, she was definitely born with it, I've seen her baby pictures." She continued to watch as Santana made her way to the building, as if she could ensure her safe passage just by keeping her eyes glued to her. When she disappeared up the steps and through the front door, Brittany turned back to the parrot cage. "But you know what, that reminds me. I had a dream last night that I was trying to put mascara on while I was in a hot air balloon? And it was a total disaster. But I had to get my makeup perfect, because the balloon was on its way to the Academy Awards."

"Hello."

"I know, right? It was a big deal. I needed to look my best. And it's a good thing I did, because after we walked the red carpet and met Melissa Rivers and her great-great-grandma Joan, you'll never guess what happened." Brittany paused, and seemed almost hesitant. "I got an award. We were just sitting there, and they called _my _name... not Rachel's, or Kurt's, or Santana's. _Mine_. It was an award for directing. Can you believe that?"

The bird seemed to have tired of the conversation now, and hopped to the bottom of the cage, pecking through his poop.

"Yeah, I know," Brittany said, resigned. "It doesn't sound that plausible. And I guess it doesn't make any sense that the ceremony was taking place in Principal Figgins' basement or that those guys from the Macarena video were passing out condoms from an Easter basket. It was actually kind of creepy," she reflected. "But still... when I went up there to get that Oscar statue? It was like the most amazing feeling, Monty. I can't even describe it. It felt like... like I finally did something right. Like what I'm _supposed _to be doing. And nobody was laughing at me." She was quiet again for a second, then added, "Don't tell anyone about this, though, okay? It was just a stupid dream."

He returned to his perch and gazed at her. After a few seconds of deliberation, he sang in an off-key voice, "What would you do-o-o for a Klondike Bar?" He flipped upside down, pleased with himself.

Brittany stared back, contemplatively. In a tactful voice, she said, "You know, Monty, sometimes I get the feeling that you and I just aren't on the same page."

Now came the sound of the front door opening and closing, and she turned, her face lighting up as Santana appeared in the living room doorway. Abandoning the parrot without a backward glance, she went toward her to welcome her home. "Hey, you."

"Hi," Santana said, then squealed a little as she was lifted up against Brittany's body for a brief moment and spun in a half circle. When they'd separated from their kiss and with her feet set firmly back on the floor, she added with a smile, "You don't have to do that every time I get home, you know."

"I know. I just like to." Taking Santana's hand, she pulled her over to the couch.

After shedding her jacket and tossing it vaguely in the direction of the chair, Santana collapsed onto the cushions, stretching out with her head in Brittany's lap. With a deep sigh, she let her body relax, staring up at her.

"Long night?" Brittany asked.

"It wasn't too bad. These Japanese tourists kept taking pictures of me, it was actually kind of flattering. I think maybe they thought I was J. Lo." She paused, then admitted, "Of course, it could be because I told them I was J. Lo."

Amused, Brittany said, "Please, you're way more talented than she is."

Santana rolled her eyes with apparent modesty, but then couldn't help saying, "Yeah, I know." After a pause she asked, "What about you? How was your day?"

"It was okay, I guess. I had to walk this cocker spaniel in the West Village? And I set up a date for her with the mutt that lives in the alley behind her building, because they've been flirting with each other for weeks now. But... it didn't go so well. They didn't even touch the spaghetti and meatballs I put out for them. All they wanted to do was hump each other. Then they got stuck together for like twenty minutes and it threw off my whole schedule for the rest of the day."

Santana listened to this, entertained but vaguely troubled. "Britt, are you supposed to let them do that?"

Considering this idea, as if for the first time, Brittany admitted, "Probably not." Then she added, "But they enjoyed it so much."

Turning her head, Santana nuzzled against her stomach, muttering, "Well, at least _someone's _enjoying some romance. I feel like we've hardly seen each other lately."

"I know." She ran her fingertips lightly over Santana's forehead, then around the edge of her cheek, tracing her hairline. "I'm always working when you're here, and you're always at school or working when I'm here. And then when we're both home we're too tired to do anything fun."

With another sigh, Santana said, "Being grown up sucks." It was true that these last few weeks since spring break had been unusually hectic. Now that the weather was warming up, people wanted their dogs taken on longer walks, which meant that Brittany's hours had almost doubled. And with more people staying out later and the tourism season beginning, Santana's boss had decided to keep the restaurant open a few hours later than usual on weeknights. Also, finals were coming up, which meant more time required for studying. There had been days when the two of them only saw each other in the morning and then again late at night.

But if these late night moments were all they had, at least they could be savored. Closing her eyes, Santana lay unmoving while Brittany stroked her hair. For a long time neither spoke, basking in the rare quiet of the apartment, pretending they were the only ones who lived there.

Feeling herself in danger of falling asleep, Santana forced her eyes open again, and found herself looking at the camera on its tripod over in the corner of the room. "I forgot to ask how the filming's going," she said.

Brittany made a face that perfectly expressed how she felt about the subject, but then she elaborated with, "I don't want to talk about it." She shook her head, adding in a weary tone, "_Actors_."

"Do you want me to kick her ass for you?" Santana offered. "Because you know I will."

Smiling, Brittany said, "Maybe later."

"Hey, I've got an idea. Since clearly we both needs to get our fun on... how about this weekend, you and me have a picnic in Central Park? Just us, no one else. The weather's supposed to be nice, and we can spend the whole day together and do whatever we want."

Brittany considered the idea, her fingers momentarily pausing, still coiled in Santana's hair. "Can we go to the petting zoo?"

"Whatever we want," she repeated with a smile. "I'll even let you film me terrified and surrounded by goats, if it makes you happy."

Picturing this, Brittany bit her lip to keep from laughing. "That _would _make a really good short film. We could call it _Santana's New Friends_.

"Just as long as you're there to rescue me," she said. "So, what do you say? It's a date?"

"Yeah, definitely. It sounds perfect." She leaned down for a kiss, but hovered a few millimeters away, just brushing Santana's lips with her own, teasing her. Santana raised her head a bit, chasing her, but Brittany retreated just out of reach. Finally, with a grin of impatience, Santana grasped the back of her head to hold her in place. Brittany surrendered and allowed the kiss to deepen.

But now the parrot, like a child jealous of affection between its parents, began squawking and flapping against the bars of the cage, trying to get their attention. "Hello!" he shrilled at them. "Hello! Hello!"

Santana didn't seem to notice the distraction, but Brittany reluctantly broke their kiss, whispering in a tempting tone, "Santana, say hi to him. He _likes _you."

Without any enthusiasm, she tilted her head backward in the direction of the cage, wanting to get it over with. "_Hello_, Monty."

Invigorated by his success, and perhaps wanting to show off a little, he proclaimed to her, "Welcome to NYADA, motherfuckers."

Bewildered by this response, she looked up at Brittany for an explanation.

Her face the picture of blank innocence, Brittany said, "Rachel taught him that." Then, before she could be asked for further details, she resumed their interrupted kiss.

* * *

><p>The next day, as afternoon edged toward evening, Santana found herself not in her own room studying biology, where she should have been and where she'd had every intention of remaining until Brittany got home from work, but instead on Rachel's bed, with Kurt leaning against her reading her private texts over her shoulder.<p>

"You know," she said without taking her eyes from her phone, "Most people would find it rude for their sassy sidekick to get all up in their business like this without asking. But I happen to know that your own messages are so stale and boring you need the vicarious thrill of mine just to get through the day."

"I appreciate it," he muttered wryly, still reading. "Wait, go back. Was that one from Brittany?"

"Yeah." She paused, reading it again, confused. "Brittany's texts are like riddles."

Kurt read it out loud in a musing tone. "_Italian or Russian? Both sexy, both hot, but one is spicy and one is not_." He considered for a second. "I think that may be a haiku."

"I'm not sure whether she's talking about food or women. What should I say?"

"Well, I'm no expert, but either way, I would go with Italian," he advised.

Santana sent her reply, then glanced around her, seeming to recall all of a sudden where she was. "Remind me again what we're doing in here?"

"I'm not sure myself," Kurt said, sounding bored. "She wants our opinions on something. All I know is that she'd better not be modeling underwear again. I'm still having recurring nightmares."

She gave him a smirk, and as if she couldn't help herself, asked, "The red ones?"

"Oh God," he shuddered, remembering. "It was like Moulin Rouge acted out by Mary Katherine Gallagher."

Santana refrained from commenting, since to her horror, she'd had dreams about the red ones too, although they couldn't exactly be called nightmares. In order to keep Kurt from suspecting this, since he was eerily good at reading her, she got up and went to the doorway, stepping across the hall and smacking the door of the locked bathroom, in which Rachel had been mysteriously closeted for the last fifteen minutes. "If you don't get your ass in here in ten seconds, we're gone!"

Her voice came back muffled. "Hold on, I'm almost ready! Just... sit back down!"

Santana reluctantly returned to the bed and dropped back onto it, shoving a clump of overstuffed pillows out of her way. No sooner had she gotten re-settled than, true to her word, Rachel came out of the bathroom and announced her imminent arrival from the hallway. "Okay, here I come. Remember, I want you to be honest!"

Finally, she appeared in the room. As she came over to stand in front of them, Kurt's expression slowly transitioned from one of boredom to one of shock. His mouth fell open a little. Santana's eyes widened in bafflement. They both stared at her for a long moment, stunned into silence.

Rachel was _blonde_.

"Well?" she asked, impatient. "What do you think? I want your forthright, unfiltered opinions."

Kurt seemed to be making a supreme effort to come up with something honest and yet not hurtful. "It's... it's _different_," he said in a tentative way.

Santana looked at him with disgust. "Oh, grow some balls, Hummel." She turned back to Rachel. "You look like a bat mitzvah Hannah Montana!"

With a stoic expression, Rachel seemed to steel herself for the onslaught, because as everyone knew, once Santana got started, one insult just wasn't enough.

"No, Rachel, straight up?" she continued. "You look like what would happen if Weird Al had a baby with Marilyn Monroe's inbred third cousin." She leaned forward, getting into her stride. "I mean, seriously? You look like if one of those radioactive people from Erin Brockovich fell into a tank of bleach while conducting a bris, and _then _decided to have a kosher picnic with the cast of..."

She cut her off. "All right, Santana, I got it!"

Santana gave her an innocent shrug. "You wanted us to be honest."

"Okay, then," she said, trying not to lose hope. "If you don't like the blonde, let's try... the red."

"Oh thank God it's just a wig," Kurt gasped in relief, bringing his hand to his heart as he watched her dash back into the bathroom to switch from one color to another.

Coming back into the room, now with long, wavy auburn hair, Rachel said, "Well?" She waited, then prompted them, "First thing that comes to mind."

Santana looked at Kurt and raised her eyebrows, as if to say,_ Your turn._

He cringed a bit at his own thoughts, but then couldn't help himself. "Lindsey Lohan, circa 2005, hosting a Hanukkah party?"

Proud of him now, Santana gave a nod and smiled, turning back to Rachel. "Where all the dreidels have little heroin needles sticking out of them."

Kurt pressed his fingers to his mouth to keep from laughing.

With a heavy sigh, Rachel yanked the red wig off. "All right, fine! I've got one more. I saved this one until last, because I don't think there can be any disputing that it's the best and the most flattering." She ducked out of the room again, and seconds later returned, this time with a wig that was nearly waist-length and jet black. With strained eagerness, she stood in front of them, waiting for the reaction.

This time they were both quiet, looking everywhere but at each other. Santana pressed her lips together to try to control herself, but mockery shone from her eyes. Kurt was torn between pity and hilarity. The silence stretched out.

Eventually, with a look of weary resignation, Rachel seemed to accept that this wasn't going to go the way she'd planned. "You know what, go ahead and say it," she snapped, giving them permission. "I know you won't be satisfied until you get it out."

With a brief smile first to savor the anticipation, Santana told her, "Morticia Addams sitting shiva for Gomez."

"While Uncle Fester passes around the bagels and lox," Kurt added, inspiring a snort of amusement from Santana.

"That was the last one, I swear," she said through giggles, holding up her hand in surrender. "We don't even know any more Jewish stuff."

"No, we really don't," Kurt agreed, shaking his head, still trying not to laugh. "That was everything we know."

"You know what, just forget the whole thing!" Rachel said, taking off the last wig and furiously yanking the pins out of her own hair, letting clumps of it fall back down around her shoulders as she lectured them at the same time. "I guess I have to plead temporary insanity, because I can't imagine why out of all the people in the world I would have even _considered _asking you two for advice, or why I would have ever in a million years expected your reactions to be anything less than condescending and... vaguely racist."

Now she gathered up the wigs and stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag, looking dangerously near tears. "I'm taking these back, right now. If I get there before they close, maybe I can get a refund, even though they were on the clearance rack." Swooping her purse onto her shoulder in a melodramatic way, she made as if to head for the door. Feeling guilty now, Santana wondered if she should tell her that she'd missed about half of the hair pins and that the disheveled effect made her look like a crack addict.

But before she could make her exit, Kurt stopped her. "Rachel, wait, _wait_!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the room, apologizing. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. It's just that... well, she's a terrible influence."

"_Hey_." Santana shot him a dirty look. "The bagel thing was all you."

He pulled out the desk chair and maneuvered Rachel into it. She sat, obligingly enough, as if she hadn't actually expected them to let her leave.

"What is this about, anyway?" he asked, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. "What's wrong with your real hair? It's one of your best features."

"You know, he's right, it is," Santana said in what she hoped was a soothing voice as she bent forward and plucked out a few of the overlooked hair pins. "It distracts from your face."

"And your personality," Kurt mumbled.

"There's nothing _wrong _with it," she said. "It's just that it's so ordinary. Face it, brunettes in this city are a dime a dozen. I'm tired of blending in. I want to stand out. When I walk through a room, I want people to remember me. I want them to say _Who was that girl?_"

"Well, I'm pretty sure people already do that," Santana told her.

She looked hopeful. "Really?"

"Of course, it's usually because you're singing to yourself, and they're wondering if they should look for your guardian or, you know, help you find your way back to the Home."

Rachel took this in stride, since she'd walked right into it. Returning to her explanation, she said, "I just feel like... I want to try something different, something new. After being passed over for Maria in favor of Polly Lin, and after..." she trailed off, troubled, and then clamped her lips together as if she'd revealed more than she'd intended.

"After what?" Kurt asked, concerned.

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Rachel," Santana began, dropping the mockery. "How long do you think you can keep -"

"I don't want to talk about it," she interrupted. Santana and Kurt glanced at each other, holding a silent conferral in which they decided not to press her. After all, it was so rarely that she _didn't_ want to talk about something that her wishes should probably be respected when it happened. But their curiosity was killing them.

"I just... feel like making some changes, that's all," she went on. "But obviously, judging from the number of one-liners you two were able to extract from a five minute preview, wigs are not the answer." She stared dolefully down at the shopping bag, feeling sorry for herself.

"What about a makeover?" Santana suggested.

Kurt's face lit up, and he made a praying gesture. "Yes, please?"

"I thought about that, but I can't afford any new clothes. Not until next semester."

Santana drew her feet up under her on the bed, trying to think of something else. "Well, have you considered just doing your hair differently? In all the years I've known you, I've only seen you style it in about five different ways, and _all _of them are boring."

"I'm just not any good at that kind of stuff," she protested. "I don't have any idea what I'm doing."

Kurt couldn't help pointing out, "I've offered to help you before."

"I know you have, Kurt, and I appreciate it, but... don't take this the wrong way. It's just that somehow you always manage to make me look like Snooki."

He glanced around, puzzled. "I don't see the problem here."

Ignoring him, Rachel gave a dramatic sigh. "Gosh, if only I knew somebody _else _who was skilled in this particular area, someone known for his or _her _sense of cutting-edge style and personal grooming." She waited, hopeful.

Kurt gave Santana a pointed look, which she returned with a tiny _Hell, no _shake of her head. They were becoming quite adept at having conversations entirely without words.

"I suppose it's just as well, though," Rachel went on in a martyred tone. "It probably wouldn't make any difference anyway. No matter what my hair looks like, at the end of the day, I'd still be plain Rachel Berry, just a Jewish girl from Ohio who nobody notices."

Santana couldn't restrain a sardonic glance heavenwards, but she managed to keep silent, trying to wait out the performance.

Sensing defeat, Rachel played her trump card. "Maybe I'd be able to do it myself, if only I hadn't grown up without the loving female guidance of a mother to -"

"Oh for God's sake!" Santana broke in. _It always comes down to the mother thing_. "Do you want me to give you hair-styling lessons? Is that what it's gonna take to get the violins to stop playing?"

Rachel brought her hand to her heart as if touched by the consideration. "Oh! I hadn't even thought about that idea, but would you?"

"I'm not doing it for free, though," she added. "Do you have any idea how much I'm busting my ass lately just to get through the day? I don't even have time to be in here right now."

"What is it with you and Brittany expecting to be paid for things?" Rachel sounded offended. "If I ask my dads for any more money they'll make me get a job."

"And if her parents make her get a job, then mine will too," Kurt said, looking worried. "These are our last years of dependency, we have to milk them while we can."

"Must be nice," Santana said, resentful. "Look, I'm not running a charity here, I have to get _something _out of it." She thought for a second, then hit upon an idea. "I know... you can do my laundry again. One load for every lesson."

Rachel crossed her arms, mulling over the indignity of this proposal, but not for very long. "Fine."

Pleased by the arrangement, Santana managed a haughty smile, as if the entire thing had been her idea from the beginning. "Then it's a deal."

Now Kurt brought his hands together in a gesture of finality. "Well, ladies, this has been a heartwarming session of emotional manipulation and cold, calculated bribery. I do so cherish our friendship." He gave them both affectionate looks. "But I'm afraid I must be going. Elijah and I have tickets to a foreign film in Soho. I'm not sure which country it's from, but I know it has subtitles, which means we get to feel cultured and intellectually superior while we're watching it."

They followed him out into the hallway.

"So what's the deal with this guy, anyway?" Santana asked. "You go out with him all the time, you're clearly screwing like bunnies, and yet you hardly ever bring him here."

"You know, that's true," Rachel said, like it had just occurred to her. "Why don't you ever invite him over?"

He looked at them as if doubting whether they could possibly be serious. "Because I like him, and I don't want to scare him away."

Before she could come up with a suitably snarky response to this, Santana's phone chirped to alert her to a new text. "Speaking of jobs and people who have them," she said, checking the message. "It's work. Damn it. They want me to come in right away, it says it's an emergency. Amelia must have called in sick or something."

Pulling on his jacket, Kurt sniffed. "What a shame."

"Yes, I certainly hope it's nothing serious," Rachel said in, for her, an oddly flat voice. "Like polio, or... I don't know, rabies."

"Yeah, I _know_, you guys aren't fans. But if you're waiting for me to jump in and defend her, you've got the wrong person." Santana glanced at the clock. "Give me five minutes to change, and I'll ride in with you," she told Kurt.

He gave her sweats and ponytail a skeptical once-over. "Better make it ten."

In actuality, it took more like twenty, because she felt she had a responsibility to the patrons of the club to look as hot as possible while performing. It was an obligation she didn't take lightly. In what she considered one of her finest moments of canny maneuvering, she'd even managed to get a special bonus added on to her paycheck at the end of every month for "wardrobe upkeep."

In the entryway she hastily buttoned up her jacket while Kurt made his I'm-too-refined-to-acknowledge-my-impatience face, or, as Brittany called it, his Pink Panther face. The thought of Brittany reminded her of the text from earlier. _Shit_. Once again, it would be late at night before they got a chance to see each other. She thought with longing of the weekend ahead, and the chance for an entire, uninterrupted day. But this was only Monday. There was the entire week still to get through.

"Tell Britt I'm sorry," she said to Rachel on her way out. Kurt held the door open, tapping his toe at her. "She's bringing home Italian food. Or... possibly prostitutes. Either way, I guess you can have mine."

She followed Kurt into the hallway, closing the door on Rachel's confused expression.

* * *

><p>On the way into Manhattan, before they switched trains, Santana and Kurt played a rare, live subway edition of <em>How Many Gays<em>. This particular version of the game was their own little secret, kept just between the two of them. The secrecy was necessary, because Rachel wasn't capable of doing anything in public without drawing attention to herself, and because Brittany couldn't be trusted not to simply walk up to people and ask if they were gay. Which, in addition to being dangerous, was also cheating, in their opinions. The game had to have _some _standards, and if they weren't going to uphold them, who would? After spotting four definites and a possible maybe, which broke their previous record by one, they parted from each other in good moods.

On her own and finally inside the club, Santana took a few seconds, as always, to let her eyes adjust to the sudden dim lighting. Although by this point, if she had to, she could probably navigate the place in pitch darkness. It had become as familiar to her as a second home. She knew every inch of the stage, the location of every table, the paths the waiters took and how to avoid colliding with them when she occasionally wandered down into the crowd to work her magic. And she was pretty sure that even during an earthquake she would be able to find her way to the bar, where she often ended up after a long shift in order to take advantage of the free drinks she earned through unabashed flirtation with the bartender, Keith, a sweet but dense guy who couldn't seem to wrap his head around the notion that she was never, ever going to sleep with him.

She headed there now, since she had about ten minutes before she would be expected to go on. Keith saw her coming, and she smiled at him, but he gave a small wince, as if trying to warn her of something. She soon saw what it was.

Millie turned around from the bar, her signature mint julep cradled in her hand. "Howdy," she said, the word heavy with irony.

Santana stopped in her tracks, disconcerted. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, it is just _so _good to see you, too, shortcake."

"No, I just meant... I thought you were sick. I mean, I thought that's why they called me in." She hated the fact that she sounded flustered.

Sipping from her drink in a bored way, Millie checked her watch. "They called everyone in. Some kind of emergency meeting. I reckon someone's in trouble." She gave Santana a sly look. "You don't think they found out what we did in the walk-in freezer, do ya?"

Santana closed her eyes in brief mortification, because she'd somehow managed to forget all about that. "You know what, Amelia, how about we just skip the whole olden-days reminiscing thing, okay? It's not gonna do you any good, and it sure as hell isn't gonna do me any good."

With a tiny shrug, as if to say _Whatever_, Millie gazed out over the still-mostly empty tables, leaning against the bar. "So how's the roomies? Still so loud and obnoxious they'd make a deaf hound dog dunk its head in kerosene?"

Something in her bristled at the words, even though she herself had called them much worse than that. But it was different when someone else did it. "They're fine," she said tersely.

Millie continued in a conversational tone. "Saw Rachel the other day, waitin' for a cab outside some swanky little dive on 44th. She was all gussied up like she was fixin' to sell herself on the corner... had herself a boy on her arm looked like a damn used car salesman."

Skeptical, Santana considered this. "Yeah, I don't think that was her."

"If you say so. But I'm pretty sure I'd know that nose anywhere." She took another sip of her drink. "How are things with you and... oh, gosh, now what was her name? _Buffy_?"

Practically biting her tongue to keep from unleashing a stream of insults, Santana managed to say after a few seconds, "Brittany," adding in her head, _And you damn well know it, you malicious cunt._

"That's it." She nodded. "You know, I realize I only met her just the one time? But talk about a sweetheart. Like she fell out of the adorable tree and hit every branch on the way down. I just love simple people, don't you? After a long day of _thinking_, you can chat with 'em and just... let your mind rest."

Santana took a slow, deep breath, trying not to rise to the bait. There was a smoldering anger coiling up from her middle, and she knew it was probably out of all proportion to what she was actually hearing. But she was well-versed in Millie's particular brand of subtle, sugar-coated bitchiness. There was no mistaking the real intent of her words.

"You don't know anything about Brittany," she said in a voice that managed to stay calm and yet still hint at a threat. "So I would strongly suggest that you keep her name out of your backwoods coal-miner's-daughter honky-tonk whistlin' mouth."

Millie could barely restrain her delight at Santana's reaction. It was almost as though she'd been nostalgic for something like this. "So I take it y'all are still together, then?"

"You take it right. In fact," she added, a new angle striking her. "If you want to get technical, I would say we were never really _not _together."

Managing to ignore the implications of this for herself, Millie said, "And how's that workin' out for you? Life's a bed of roses and all that shit?"

"As a matter of fact, it is." She looked away from the empty tables and turned to face her head on. "Everything is super and perfect and fanfuckingtastic. I would even go so far as to say I've never been this happy in my life."

She'd intended the words solely as a dig, but she realized as she spoke them how true they were. This truth must have been obvious to Millie as well, because finally, there was a flicker of hurt behind her facade of detached amusement. Santana was satisfied by the success of this direct hit, but at the same time, she felt a tiny pang of remorse. It wasn't like she hadn't been goaded into it, though.

Millie was quiet for a minute, examining her with the ghost of a bitter smile. Finally, she said in a softer voice, "Congratulations."

Before Santana could reply, the owner, Suresh, appeared around the corner of the bar, leading some of the wait staff behind him, all of them looking nervous.

"All right, everyone!" he called, clapping his hands for attention. "We may as well do this right here." He looked around at his assembled employees. "First of all, thank you for coming. So lovely to see all of your faces gathered before me, like my own children. Only not so much children, as people I pay the minimum wages to perform menial tasks." He beamed at them. They all gazed back blankly, clueless as to where this was going.

"So," he continued, "I will not keep you waiting in suspension. I have gathered you all here tonight because I have both good news, and bad news. The good news is that my mother is dying!"

Santana and Millie glanced at each other, mystified. Most of the other employees wore the same expression. But Suresh didn't seem to notice.

"This means, of course, that I am only a few days away from inheriting my family's substantial wealth and property in India. I know you will all celebrate with me in my good fortune." He waited a second, but when this celebration didn't prove to be forthcoming, he went on. "However. This unexpected windfall of fate means that I must leave this country and all of you immediately - the day after tomorrow, in fact, before my brothers swoop in like the insatiable vultures they are and claim my share of the inheritance. _That _is the bad news."

He paused, giving them a moment to digest the fact of his upcoming departure. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and also, you are all fired."

There were collective gasps and looks of dismay around the group. Keith, the bartender, leaned his elbows on the bar and cradled his head with a long drawn-out, "_Fuuuuuck_."

"Wait a minute, hold up," Santana said, trying to stay calm. "You can't just fire us without any warning! We haven't done anything wrong."

"It is true, I have no problem with any of you in terms of performance," he said reasonably. "You are all excellent workers. Except for you, Jessica. You were going to be fired anyway," he added to a new waitress in the back, who now glanced around her self-consciously. "But matters are outside of my hands. I can not afford to pay rent on this location while it isn't open. I can barely afford it while it _is _open. This is prime Midtown real estate! So," he took a deep, solemn breath. "I am afraid that tomorrow will be our last day of business. I realize this is all very sudden. But!" Now Suresh pulled a sheaf of what looked like pamphlets or plane tickets out of his inner jacket pocket. "To make it up to you, my cousin Dev has been kind enough to procure for all of you season passes to the Splish Splash Water Park on Long Island." He began passing out the tickets to them. "You will be thrilled to know that it has ninety percent fewer lightning-related deaths than other water parks of the same size!"

Santana took the season pass he held out to her, but barely glanced at it. "Okay, I'm sorry, but this is bullshit," she told him. "We deserve more than _one day's _notice if we're losing our jobs. I'm pretty sure it's not even legal for you to do this." Actually she wasn't sure of that at all, but it sounded good.

"Santana," he chided her in a sing-song voice, like she was a recalcitrant child. "Have you ever been on the Dinosaur Falls slide, or experienced the rush of Dr. Von Dark's Tunnel of Terror? I think you will change your tune when you have." He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder.

She continued to stare at him like he was out of his mind.

"All right," he finally said, throwing up his hands as though he gave in. "I will continue to pay all of your wages until the end of the month, how does that sound?"

There was relief from the assembled employees, but not much. April was almost halfway over already.

The tables were beginning to fill now, and customers looked around, impatient, wondering why they weren't being waited on. "Time to get to work," Suresh said now, bringing this bewildering meeting to a sudden close. "I want you all to know that I appreciate your time here, and if any of you ever come to Bengal, I would be glad to offer you a high-paying job that may or may not involve performing sexual favors for German tourists. The details are still being worked out." With a benevolent smile, he moved off to greet his patrons.

The employees, though still stunned, began to drift off to their respective tasks. Millie took out a compact mirror to check her makeup, preparing to head toward the stage. "Well, I guess this is it for me," she drawled in a resigned way. "Tomorrow's your night." She shook her head, saying under her breath. "That son of a bitch. I always knew this job was too dang good to be true."

Santana feigned more indifference than she actually felt. "Yeah, well... it's his club, he can do what he wants with it. I'm not worried."

Millie looked at her, surprised. "You're _not_." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope. In fact, I bet I find something even better before the week is over. I've been meaning to spread my wings, anyway. I mean, this place is fine for beginners, but let's face it... in terms of star quality, I outgrew it a long time ago."

With a smile that was slightly pitying, Millie told her, "You just don't get it, do you, sugar? You know how long I looked for a job like this, where I can sing what I want and actually get paid for it? More than two years. And not only do I write my own music, but I play the piano _and _the guitar. You don't do any of that. Face it, you're just a glorified karaoke singer." She shrugged, as if the next words should be obvious. "You got lucky once. But I'm willin' to bet it ain't gonna happen twice."

Refusing to acknowledge the potential truth of this, Santana only smirked. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I talked my way into this job by sheer force of charisma, and I can talk my way into another one. Don't underestimate my badass powers of persuasion."

"Oh, believe me, I don't." She looked as if there was more she would have liked to add to this, but she controlled the impulse. "But you just don't know what it's like out there. You're screwed."

Santana refused to relinquish her attitude of disdainful superiority. "We'll see about that."

Amused, Millie agreed. "I guess we will." She noticed Suresh over on the other side of the room, gesturing at his watch in a dramatic way. "Well... bottom's up." She raised her glass at Santana, even though she didn't have a drink, and drained the last of her cocktail. Without another word, she headed up to the stage.

Santana turned to go, since there wasn't much reason to linger. Now she'd have to spend another half hour on the train, going straight back to where she'd just come from, only without Kurt for entertainment. She vaguely wondered if she should stop and get herself something to eat, since she'd already signed over her food to Rachel. Or maybe she should text her and tell her she couldn't have it after all? Was that too selfish, even for her?

With these minor dilemmas occupying her mind, she made it to the door, but then paused as Amelia began her first number. _Oh, come on, you've got to be kidding me, _she thought_._ The song was Patsy Cline's _She's Got You_.

Knowing she should continue on out the door, she hung back for just a minute, watching. As irritating as Millie could be with her honeyed drops of poison, there was no denying she was an amazing performer. She could take country music, even the oldest and corniest songs in existence, and somehow make it relevant and palatable, intoxicating even, to the most jaded, sophisticated New Yorkers. It was something of a miracle, and no matter how many times she'd seen it, Santana still couldn't quite figure out how she pulled it off. Maybe it was Millie herself, more than the music, and the tinge of earnest, desperate sadness she brought to everything she sang. Anyone who only knew her casually would assume that it was an act, put on to get the audience's sympathy. But it wasn't. Whatever made her sing like that, it was much deeper and more complicated than the surface cruelty. Maybe, aside from her longing for Brittany, that had been the problem between them all along, Santana reflected. The last thing she needed in a relationship was someone so similar to herself.

But there was no point in thinking about this now. Either the song had nothing to do with her and had simply been first on the set list, or Amelia was deliberately trying to fuck with her head. In either case, there was no point in sticking around to hear the rest of it. Pulling her gaze away, she pushed past the customers just coming into the club and headed out the door, toward home and Brittany.

* * *

><p>Through the dim haze of half-sleep, Santana became aware of movement in the bed next to her, of the quilt being pushed back and a draft of air working its way in, of the slight dip in the mattress as Brittany shifted her weight and prepared to swing her legs onto the floor. Acting as quickly as she could, considering she wasn't quite awake yet, Santana hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her backwards. Brittany gave in with a smile, allowing herself to be pulled down into the bed again.<p>

"Hey," Brittany whispered once her head was back on the pillow. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"Well, you did anyway. So now you're stuck here." Santana moved her head closer for a light kiss, then stretched and burrowed against her.

"Okay, but only for a few minutes, because the first dog on my rounds today is a collie with bowel control problems. If she can't hold it until I get there, I have to clean it up."

Santana made a face, thinking briefly of how grateful she was for her own job, but then she remembered. _Oh yeah. _ With a sigh, she pulled back and said, "I guess I should probably get up too. I've got a few hours before class, so I might as well kick off the job hunt. I've got to start pounding the pavement sometime."

"You mean like with a sledgehammer? I don't think they would hire you, you're too tiny."

She opened her mouth to explain that _pounding the pavement _was just an expression, but then she saw the glint of humor in Brittany's eyes. Sometimes it was so easy to underestimate her. She smiled a little and kissed her again.

For a while they lay without speaking. While their schedules remained so busy, these early morning times, like the late night ones, had to be savored. And deep down, if she had to choose, these were Santana's favorites. There was something about the intimacy of lying beside her in those lazy moments just after waking up, of letting Brittany see her in the first vulnerable seconds of consciousness, of beginning her entire day with the sight of those blue eyes gazing back from the other pillow, the warm, familiar scent of her in the sheets, the way she could reach across and brush Brittany's hair out of her eyes before she even bothered with her own. Of course, it wasn't like they hadn't had plenty of practice. Since middle school, they'd spent almost every weekend and a good portion of each summer sleeping next to each other; in their own bedrooms, at camp, in motels, in sleeping bags on Quinn's floor. But somehow, it wasn't the same. No matter how much they pretended otherwise, those were sleepovers, and they existed in the realm of the temporary. But this? This was real. This was what it felt like to live with someone, to share everything, to wake up in a bed that belonged to both of you and to know that after the long day was over, you were both going to return to it.

And the amazing part, in Santana's opinion, was that they had fallen into the whole thing with such ease that the transition had hardly been noticeable. It was like they'd been waiting for this chance all their lives, like all that time spent sleeping in separate beds, in separate homes... _that _was the awkward, unnatural arrangement, and now they could finally restore things to the way they were meant to be. Did other couples really stress out over sharing space, over how soon to stay all night, over the right time to move in together? She pitied them.

"So tonight's really your last night?" Brittany asked after a minute, sounding a little sad. "I can't believe it."

"Yeah, it looks that way. This whole thing just sucks so much. You know, I hope his mother _doesn't_ die. It would serve him right." She made an effort to keep the bitterness out of her voice, since it felt like a bad way to start the day. "You're gonna be there, aren't you?"

"If you want me to be."

"Of course I do. I want to do a song with you, for my last number. I already know which one."

"Then... I can't wait." Brittany looked pleased, as though she'd already been convinced that _she _wouldn't be the one chosen for this particular duet. "And you know what else? I bet you'll find a new job today. Actually, I'm surprised that people aren't already lined up at the door, as soon as they heard you were available. Maybe they're all having some kind of secret meeting and it's like an NFL draft, only they're fighting over you."

Santana smiled, amused and yet flattered by the image. "I kinda doubt that, but... thank you." To show her appreciation, she raised her head and pressed her lips gently to the hollow of Brittany's throat. Then, because she was so close anyway, she let her mouth drift downwards, where the tops of Brittany's breasts swelled out of the tight tank top she wore to sleep in. Her skin was still warm from sleep, and the pre-shower scent of it was quite possibly the most intoxicating thing in the world.

"Hey, before I forget again, can I talk to you about something?" Brittany suddenly asked, contemplative.

"Anything." But her words were muffled, because she didn't raise her head or stop what she was doing.

"_Santana_."

"What? I can listen while I do this."

"Yeah, but... I can't _talk _while you do that. Or if I do, it won't be words appropriate for daylight hours."

Regretfully, she pulled herself away and leaned back onto her own pillow again. "Okay, okay. I'm all ears."

Brittany pulled the comforter up to her armpits, as if to prevent Santana's eyes from wandering. "So... I was talking to Mr. Bloom yesterday after I helped him carry his groceries up the stairs? And it turns out he's gonna be driving to Illinois soon to visit his daughter. He'll be gone till, like, the end of summer."

"Wow," Santana said, having no idea at all where this was going. Mr. Bloom didn't have any pets he wanted them to look after, did he? Because that was the last thing they needed to take on right now.

"And on his way there, he'll be driving right through Lima. Or not through it, exactly, but... really close to it."

"Okay," she said slowly, with a slight feeling of unease.

"Well, anyway... he said that if we wanted to ride along with him and make sure he stays sober, he'd take us for free. So I was thinking that maybe we could go home for a visit? My parents have been bugging me lately. It's been three whole months, and they never really expected me to stay this long. I didn't even bring all my stuff."

"Oh." Santana's mind raced, but she managed to keep an outward appearance of calm. "I mean, yeah, it's really awesome of him to offer and everything. But it's just... I've got classes for another six weeks, Britt. I can't really go anywhere until June."

"Yeah, I know." She looked disappointed, but not surprised. After a brief pause, she went on in a careful tone, "Maybe I should just go on my own. It would only be for like a week or two... I could take the bus or the train back. I hate to pass up a free ride."

Santana sat up in the bed now, with the pretext that it was getting late and they needed to get a move on, but really because she needed a bit of distance and she didn't want Brittany to notice how worried she suddenly felt. Had she really been thinking, just moments ago, that they were above the kind of petty issues other couples dealt with? Oh, the irony.

"I guess you could do that," she said in what she hoped was a reasonable voice. "But um, if you waited, we could go together. After I land myself a kickass new job, maybe I can even splurge on round-trip plane tickets. We could join the Mile High club," she added temptingly. "Just think how much better that would be than riding with a guy who takes up half the car and smells like a discount winery."

"That's true," Brittany acknowledged, amused. But she couldn't help adding, "It's just, my sister's Girl Scout troop has their spring overnight coming up, and she really wants me to come. I've never missed one before."

Santana stared at the pattern on the bedspread, unable to come up with any kind of argument against this that didn't make her sound like the most selfish bitch on the planet.

"And also," Brittany went on, reluctant now. "My mom took Lord Tubbington to the vet for his checkup last week, and they said that... that he may not live that much longer. Apparently the Atkins diet was not the way to go."

"_Sweetie_." Santana gave her a sympathetic look, running her hand down her arm. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I'm trying not to think about it. I just really want to get him and bring him back here. He must think I abandoned him. I mean, I love Monty and everything, but... it's like how that old saying goes, _Once you go cat you never go back_."

Pressing her lips together and wrinkling her brow a little, Santana said with delicacy, "Actually, Britt, I don't _think _that's how that saying goes. But I know what you mean." After a few seconds of quiet, she said, "You really want to go, don't you?"

Brittany shrugged, but couldn't deny it. "Sort of."

Santana took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the sudden paranoia that was threatening to overwhelm her. She should have known this homesickness thing wouldn't just go away, that it would rise up to freak her out yet again, even when she thought it had been laid to rest. Everything had felt so perfect lately, so settled. Maybe _too _settled. Was this some kind of lesson from the universe against getting too comfortable?

_Stop being ridiculous_, she lectured herself. _This is not a big deal. Even if she goes, she'll come back_.

Brittany still seemed to be waiting for her blessing, and Santana opened her mouth to give it, but her courage failed her. The fear of losing her was just too strong. Instead, she pretended to check the clock. "Damn it, it's really getting late. You should probably get ready."

The distraction seemed to work. Brittany glanced at the clock, and realizing it was true, she got out of bed and started her preparations to go, sitting at the vanity mirror to pull her hair back, still in her underwear. Santana watched her, already regretting what she was about to say, but saying it anyway. "Can you just promise me you won't decide anything until we have the chance to talk about it some more?"

Brittany turned back toward her, a glimmer of understanding in her features, as if maybe, after all, she did have some idea of why this whole thing scared Santana so much. "I promise."

She breathed an inward sigh of relief, watching as Brittany stood and propped her shoulder bag open on the desk chair, filling it with some of the things she always carried with her during the day, including her camera. The sight of it prompted Santana to ask in what she hoped was a casual way, "What about the filming and everything? If you leave now, wouldn't it put a kink in Rachel's deranged plans to take the cinematic world by storm?"

"Oh, that." Her voice was strangely flat. "I don't think that's much of an issue... I'm pretty sure she fired me."

Santana stared at her in disbelief. "She did _what_?"

"Yeah, she says we don't see eye to eye or something... only she used much bigger words. We were supposed to be on a hiatus, but then last night while she was eating the pasta I bought for _you_, she said that she's thinking about going in another direction."

"Oh, she _is_, is she?" Letting these words sink in, Santana was reminded of Millie's similar condescension toward Brittany from last night. She hadn't been able to do anything about that, but this was different. And suddenly the combined frustration of that encounter, of losing her job, of the fear that Brittany would go back to Lima without her... all of it coalesced into one unified, smoldering core of fury. Now, finally, she had a target for it. "We'll just see about that." Without another word, Santana threw the covers off and began looking around for some clothes.

As she slid her laptop into the shoulder bag, Brittany turned, worried. "It's not really a big deal. Technically, she's right, I don't have any experience as a filmmaker."

There was no response to this, but Santana's expression foretold danger. She yanked last night's dress back over her head with a vengeance, since it was the closest thing to hand.

"Santana. " Brittany watched her, increasingly alarmed by what she'd set in motion. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." She gave an exaggerated innocent shrug, her hand already on the doorknob. "I'm just gonna have a little chat with her, that's all."

"_Santana_." But she was already out the door, and Brittany hurriedly pulled her shirt on, not bothering with pants. "_Shit_," she muttered as she followed her out, a word she only used when she really, really meant it.

She caught up with her just as she entered the kitchen. Kurt was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, and one look at Santana's face caused him to pull his cereal bowl in toward his body, as if to protect it from her wrath.

Rachel stood near the window to the balcony, talking on the phone. "No, Dad, I mean it. The performance is this weekend, but there's no need for you guys to come up. My lovely roommates will all be there to support me. And like I told you, I'm just an understudy. Although if you wanted to send some kind of giant bouquet to show your love, preferably with a check inside, I wouldn't say no to -"

Her words were cut off as Santana jerked the phone from her hand. She raised it to her own ear, saying with ironic pleasantry, "Hi, Mr. Berrys? She'll have to call you back. It's tantric yoga time." She hung up with an exaggerated flourish and put the phone in her cleavage for safekeeping.

"Santana!" Rachel stared at her in shock. "What are you doing? I was about to get money!"

"Did you tell Brittany she wasn't a good director?" she demanded.

She looked guilty, as though she'd been caught at something. "No, I most certainly did not." She paused, trying to think of the safest way to phrase it. "I may have questioned the wisdom of the two of us continuing our artistic partnership for reasons of -"

"Oh my God, stop talking!" Santana held up her hand, already bored. "You know, the funny thing is, Brittany didn't even want to be a part of your stupid project to begin with. She got roped into it so that we could get the bigger bedroom, which _should _have been ours anyway. But, because she's a woman of her word, she stuck to the agreement to help you with your demented vanity project, in the process working her ass off for you! And this is the thanks she gets?"

Brittany was quiet during this exchange, clearly torn between wanting to stop the violence but also enjoying the hell out of it.

Rachel attempted to defend herself. "I understand why you would feel that way, but I have an obligation to my financial backers..."

"_What _financial backers?" Santana interrupted her. "Your parents? Because, newsflash, Princess Toadstool! Other than Brittany, no one gives a shit about your busted-ass ego trip of a movie, except you and your dads!"

Trying to find a way around this obvious truth, Rachel said in a quiet voice, "That's not true, both Quinn _and _Kurt have also requested advance tickets."

"Leave me out of this," he said warningly, keeping his eyes glued to the paper.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" Santana continued. "Where the hell do you get the nerve firing somebody who was working for your ass for free? Are you actually cracked enough to think you're gonna find somebody else willing to put up with your pathetic delusions of grandeur?"

At this, Rachel couldn't resist a haughty reply. "As a matter of fact, I already have some candidates lined up."

"Oh, really." Santana crossed her arms, skeptical. "Is one of them that guy from the R train who pretends his belt buckle is a camera?"

"_No_," Rachel said with insulted emphasis, in a way that indicated _Shows how much you know. _But then in the interest of full disclosure, she added, "I did accept his application, but under the references section he listed his penis, so I don't think it would have worked out."

Santana scoffed. "Yeah, well, good luck finding somebody more qualified." Lying through her teeth, she added with finality, "But I guess this is all for the best, since Britts and I have been talking about it, and it occurs to us that maybe we should just make our _own _movie about the life of Rachel Berry. And then when they're both finished we can have a double screening and let the audience decide which one is better." Obviously, she had no intention of following through on this absurd threat, but it was worth it just to see the expression on Rachel's face, which was a mixture of alarmed and flattered.

After a few seconds of intrigued deliberation, she asked, "Who would play me?"

Santana looked at Brittany to see if she had any input.

As if they had indeed already been planning this project, Brittany replied without hesitation, "Rhonda." Santana nodded her approval of this idea.

Now the flattery tipped all the way toward alarm. "All right, this is getting out of hand," Rachel protested. "You know, this film project is causing me enough drama already without having to worry about my personal production decisions coming under fire from outside parties. I've already gone way over budget, thanks to Brittany's insistence on using a real placenta for the birth scene, which I had to buy on the black market. And did you know I was asked not to return to the Sunset Park playground?" she said, offended. "Apparently my method of scoping out little girls to find the perfect one to play the five-year-old me was making some of the parents uncomfortable."

"I told you not to bring the binoculars," Kurt muttered.

"Well, how I was I supposed to know people would be so unreasonable? It's not as if I look threatening. Honestly, what kind of child molester would wear knee socks?" Shaking her head and forcing herself back on track, she added, "Anyway. I would really appreciate it if the two of you would stop being so juvenile, and maybe recognize how stressful all of this has been for _me_."

Santana stared at her in bafflement for a few seconds, and appeared to be on the verge of lunging, but Brittany grabbed her arm and held her back.

Turning to her, Santana ranted in a helpless voice that verged on hysteria, "Que diablos le pasa! Debería ser ilegal ser tan irritante y egocéntrico! ¿Por qué no hay leyes en contra de eso?"

"I know," Brittany said soothingly, rubbing her back. "I know. I mean, I don't actually know, because I have no idea what you just said. But if I did, I bet I would agree with you."

While Brittany still held onto her other arm just in case, Santana pointed at Rachel with malevolence, like a witch placing a curse, switching back to English to say, "You are dead to me, Berry! _Dead_!"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "I see someone woke up on the melodramatic side of the bed this morning. Okay fine, I'm dead to you. But you know what, Brittany?" she added, turning to her. "I thought you would appreciate the fact that I respected you enough to tell you the truth. And if I hurt your feelings, I'm truly sorry. That was never my intention." To her credit, these words did seem sincere.

Brittany gave a tiny shrug, a little embarrassed by all the fuss. "It's fine. I get it." Then, inspired with a new surge of confidence from Santana's support, she couldn't help adding, "But I hope you know, your movie's gonna suck without me."

Kurt stood from the table, clearing his throat to get their attention. "As entertaining as this has been... and believe me, I wish we could start every morning this way, it's like breakfast theater," he added as an aside. "Rachel, we really need to go."

She nodded at him, then turned to Brittany. "Look, maybe I was too hasty. We can talk more about this _after _the revue this weekend, okay?"

"Yeah."

They started to head out, and Santana bit the inside of her lip, with a look on her face that indicated she needed to say something but was trying her hardest to resist it. You could practically see the two sides of her nature at war with each other. Finally, the caring side won out, just as they left the room.

"Wait."

They turned to look at her.

"Don't forget your phone."

She grudgingly pulled it from her boobs, and Rachel came back to take it. There was no need for her to say the words out loud, since the exultant lift of her eyebrows so clearly said, _But I thought I was dead to you?_

Santana continued to glare at her until she was out of the room.

When they heard the front door of the apartment close, Brittany turned to her, seeming almost shy, but pleased. "You didn't have to do that, you know. Even though it was totally hot."

Taking her hands, Santana pulled her closer. "Actually, I did. You know I can't control myself when the rage takes over. It just pisses me off so much when people can't see how brilliant you are. It makes me want to kill somebody."

Brittany was quiet for a minute, staring down at their linked hands in front of her. "Santana." She looked like someone delivering unwelcome news. "Other people don't see me the way you do."

The words made her heart give a funny little pang, because even though she knew they were true, she didn't want Brittany to have to know they were true. "Well, then... it's my job to make them. And if that job requires verbal assault or a little asskicking on occasion, then so be it."

Brittany smiled, finally looking up to meet her eyes, touched by the fierceness of Santana's protective instincts, in spite of her own pacifist nature. "Okay."

"Did you really think it was hot?" Santana asked flirtatiously, pulling her even closer.

"I like watching you yell at people," Brittany admitted in a soft voice, letting her hands settle on Santana's hips. "Especially Rachel. And you _know _I love it when you talk Spanish."

Santana pressed her body against her, standing up on her toes. "El Español es el idioma _del amor,_" she breathed hotly, nipping at her earlobe.

Brittany shivered a little, grinning. "It's so sexy even when it's gibberish." She pushed Santana backward just a bit, until her thighs met with the resistance of the table behind her.

Continuing to trail her lips in a delicate, maddening pattern from her ear down the side of her neck, Santana whispered, "Britt, you really need to leave for work."

She considered this, and seemed to attempt to move away, but nothing happened. Instead she closed her eyes to better appreciate the sensation of Santana's mouth on her skin. "I can stay a few more minutes."

A few minutes? Confident she could do better than that, Santana ran her hands in a meandering arc down the dip of Brittany's waist, envious as always at the perfect curve, even though Brittany had told her a thousand times that her ass more than made up for her lack of curves elsewhere. Now bringing one hand around to the front, she slipped it into the tight space between their bodies and then back up, cupping with gentle but firm pressure between Brittany's legs, her underwear the only resistance. "What about the collie?" she murmured in a dreamy, distracted voice.

Brittany took a long time to answer, already starting to move against her in a subtle, almost unconscious way. When the pressure increased, she gasped a little. "What collie?"

A slow smirk appeared on Santana's face, the mark of triumph. She gripped the table behind her and hopped up onto it. In almost the same fluid motion, she pulled Brittany down on top of her.

Some days, being late was worth it.

* * *

><p>10:15 PM.<p>

Where the hell were they? Santana checked the front entrance again, but the only people coming in to the club at the moment were a hipster-looking gay couple in their forties. She scanned the room, wondering if she'd somehow missed them.

Suddenly, a voice came from just behind her shoulder, causing her to jump a little. "Aww, all alone on your very last night? Ain't that a shame."

She turned to see Millie, _again_. Suppressing a sigh of frustration, she said, "Am I gonna have to get a restraining order on you?"

Millie gave her a dry smile. "Don't flatter yourself, pumpkin. I just came to pick up my last check. I'm not staying."

The front door swung open again and Santana turned, hopeful. But it was just more strangers.

"Weren't you supposed to go on, like, fifteen minutes ago?" Millie asked. "You're wastin' your last chance to impress. Who knows, maybe there's some big name record producer in the crowd, and he'll take a shine to ya and get you to sign on the dotted line before the night is over. Isn't that how it always works in the pictures?"

"The _pictures_?" Santana turned to her in disbelief. "What century did you grow up in? Do they even have talkies yet in Kentucky?"

"Tennessee," Millie corrected her, as if it wasn't the first time. "And yes ma'am, we just got those, couple years back. You shoulda seen the ruckus, the whole town turned out. Billy Joe Pritchard was so excited he forgot his pants."

Santana studied her for a few seconds, and found herself actually suppressing the urge to smile. "You haven't changed a bit."

Now the hint of bitterness returned. "Unfortunately, that's not true. Look, do you want me to go on for you? Because if someone doesn't get up there an start enterainin' these folks, then..."

"Then what, we're fired?" Santana interrupted.

Before she could respond, there was commotion at the door again, someone coming in. Santana tried to resist the urge to look, knowing that it gave Millie too much satisfaction, but she couldn't hold out. To her immense relief, she saw that this time, it was Brittany. Santana waved a little, getting her attention, and Brittany crossed the space to her.

"Hi," she said in a warm voice, watching her approach.

"Hey." She leaned in for a quick hello peck, but Santana gripped the front of her jacket and pulled her forward into a more aggressive kiss, making a bit of a display out of it. Even before she pulled away from Brittany, she could sense Millie's discomfort. Okay, so it was petty as hell, but she couldn't help the fact that it gave her a little thrill to flaunt her relationship. It was a million times more fun than being ashamed of it.

Brittany took a few seconds to catch her breath from her unusually enthusiastic welcome. "I'm so sorry I'm late." She went on, explaining in a low, confidential tone, "I missed my stop because this old Korean lady was telling me all about these rats that live on Staten Island, and according to her they can shoot lasers out of their eyes, because they were involved in some kind of nuclear accident a few years ago. Yeah, and _apparently _this guy named Giuliani was responsible? I don't know who that is, but he could be related to the family who owns that pasta place we like near Bryant Park. If so, I think we should stop going there, because I'm opposed to all forms of nuclear testing. Even though I have to admit, it would be pretty amazing to have an army of rats that can blow things up. We could use them against the terrorists. And the aliens." She trailed off a little, envisioning this grand spectacle, then got herself back on track. "Anyway, I think there's about a seventy percent chance that she was either lying or crazy, but it was still really interesting. And I didn't want to be rude."

"It's fine," Santana said quickly. _For the love of God, Brittany, please stop talking. _"Hey, Britt, you remember Amelia, right?"

"Millie," Millie corrected, in a repeat of last time.

"Oh, yeah, hey!" Brittany said, only noticing her now for the first time. "Are you singing tonight too?"

She smiled at her. "No, hon, I was just on my way out." Santana couldn't help hearing the _hon _as patronizing, even though Millie called everyone some variation of this.

"Oh. Well, you could stay and hang out with me, if you wanted to," Brittany offered.

"Really?"

"Yeah, cuz... I usually have to sit by myself while Santana sings. You could keep me company."

"Britt, she really has to go," Santana interrupted, desperate.

Seeing how much she wanted to get rid of her, Millie said, "Oh, I suppose I could hang around for a while. It'd be fun."

"What about Kurt and Rachel, where are they?" Santana pressed.

Brittany seemed evasive. "Um...they had another meeting, or rehearsal or something, for that musical thing this weekend. And besides, didn't you tell Rachel that she was dead to you?"

It seemed to take her a second to remember. "Well, _yeah_, but... that was this morning. In our time scale, that's like three months ago." She tried not to sound disappointed. "You told them it was my last night, right?"

"Yeah," Brittany said slowly, but without making direct eye contact. "I mean, I _think _I did. Things were kind of chaotic... Kurt lost one of his leather shoes and he accused Rachel of hiding it to make some kind of vegan statement, and she swore she didn't but said that even if she did it would serve him right for wearing mutilated cow carcass on his feet... They were pretty much fighting like a married couple when they left. They might not have heard me."

"Oh. Okay." She shrugged a little, casual. But then she couldn't seem to help adding, "It's just that it's weird for Rachel to pass up the opportunity for a sappy duet. She loves last performances, of _anything_. One time we were in the park and she started crying because some juggler said he was going into retirement after his final act of the day."

"I was there, I can attest to that," Millie spoke up, sardonic.

But Brittany didn't seem to hear her. She was still watching Santana, and unusually for her, she seemed to be trying to keep her patience. Her voice tight, she asked, "Do you want me to call her?"

Santana seemed to consider saying yes, but then changed her mind. "No. No, it's fine. _You're_ here, that's all that matters."

Though she smiled in response, Brittany's face still betrayed the slightest trace of tension.

Millie watched this entire exchange carefully. There was a shrewd, somewhat calculating expression on her face.

All of a sudden Suresh materialized just behind them. "Excuse me, ladies," he said with exaggerated politeness. "But perhaps you could help me with a problem I seem to be having with my watch. You see, it says that it is now twenty minutes past ten o'clock, but I am thinking that cannot be possible, because I employ a singer and a band that is supposed to be performing for paying customers at that precise time."

"All right, all right, I'm going," Santana said, rolling her eyes. "Don't strain your acting muscles." But in a way, she would sort of miss his sarcasm. What if she got stuck with a boring boss next time?

Before she moved off to sit down, Brittany gave her hand a squeeze. Santana smiled and whispered to her that she'd bring her up for the last song. Hopefully Millie would be gone by then. Gritting her teeth, she watched them move toward a table off to the side together. Millie glanced back at her once, smug.

On stage, Santana pretended she needed a few minutes to fine tune her set list, even though she'd already got it nailed down on the subway ride home the night before. The full band was here, but they didn't mind waiting. They were already on the clock, so it didn't much matter to them when they started. Even though they liked her just fine, Santana wasn't quite self-obsessed enough to believe that playing backup for a nineteen-year-old at a third rate nightclub was what they'd really dreamed of doing in their careers as musicians. She was simply what they'd ended up with when everything else had failed. And even though she'd never told them herself, she knew they had to be well aware of the fact that they made much less money than she did at this gig. But she was, after all, the star attraction.

While she made fake notes on the sheet music that she wasn't even positive she knew how to read, she kept a covert eye on the table at the back where Brittany and Millie sat. From what she could tell, they were chatting amiably enough. But of course, it _would _look that way from a distance, wouldn't it? That was the role that Millie played, and she played it to perfection. The secret conviction that she was mocking Brittany, no matter how much she smiled or how intently she seemed to listen to her... it gnawed a hole in Santana's heart. She wanted to warn Brittany, to let her know what Millie was really like, but at the same time, she hoped she never found out.

And now she had to stand up here and sing, all the while knowing exactly what was going on at that table, but unable to do anything about it. She had to pretend that it was just another night, she had to convince everyone that she didn't have the overpowering urge to stride across the room and knock Millie's teeth out of her head with the microphone, in much the same way she'd "accidentally" dropped a girl from the pyramid in Cheerios sophomore year when the bitch had circulated a false rumor that Brittany didn't know how to use tampons.

But she was just going to have to try to ignore them. She had to focus on what she was here to do. Taking a deep breath, she signaled to the band that she was ready to begin. Just like on the first night, she'd decided to start with some Amy Winehouse, _You Know I'm No Good_, which always helped her get her mojo back. Thank God, it worked. By the end of the first song she felt more like herself, and even though the lighting made it difficult to see that side of the room, she thought it looked like Millie and Brittany had stopped talking in order to watch her sing. That was good. The less they talked to each other, the better.

After Amy, she ran through some more of her favorites, the ones she always came back to, the ones that the crowd never seemed to tire of hearing. Adele, obviously. A few other current artists, like Alicia Keys. But mostly the older stuff. Billie Holiday. Etta James. Dusty Springfield. She tried to ignore the nagging reminder of Millie's words from the night before - _glorified karaoke singer_. But it was basically true, wasn't it? Maybe she should have made more of an effort to make the songs her own, to mix up the arrangements, be more original. But she had no real musical training, so she hardly knew where to begin. She'd always been loath to ask for Rachel's help due to her extreme overenthusiasm and her tendency to take over everything. And now it was too late, for this place anyway.

She tried to force herself to stop thinking about the regrets, and instead just enjoy her time up here. And now, for the first time, she let herself truly absorb the notion that this was her very last performance on this stage. It had happened so suddenly, and she'd been so busy today that she hadn't really given herself time to think about it. But now, looking out at the assembled crowd, at the almost-full tables and even toward the bar on the periphery where the loner drinkers sat with their stools swiveled towards her, it was really beginning to sink in. This was it. After this set list was done, she would never stand up here again. She would never see these people again. And though there were always a good number of total strangers - tourists or travelers or people dropping in just once, never to be seen again - there were also the regulars, the ones who showed up over and over, night after night. She liked to think that she had something to do with it, though for all she knew they could have been coming here long before she even arrived in New York.

She realized now with a strange feeling, midway through a jazzy Nina Simone number, that she didn't even know any of their names. She'd chatted with a few of them, but nothing much beyond banter, the kind that was expected of her. Once she left here tonight, she would probably never see any of them again. They would be swallowed up by the vast city, or from their perspective, _she _would be swallowed up by it. But, after all, it was probably delusional to think of it that way. That was the kind of self-dramatizing image Rachel would conjure up. Santana liked to think she had a slightly better grip on reality than that. Because in all likelihood, by the end of the week, these people wouldn't even remember what she looked like. _Or _what she sounded like. As attentively as they seemed to listen most nights, she knew they probably wouldn't experience more than a few minutes' irritation when they showed up tomorrow or the next night only to find the door locked and a closed for business sign hanging on it. They'd move on, they'd find somewhere else to have their cocktails and their nightcaps. Maybe the new place would have live entertainment, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe they didn't care much either way.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't keep the tinge of melancholy out of her thoughts. She thought it probably bled through into the performances, but most of these songs were sad anyway, so it didn't matter. She sang through her break, trying to make the most of the time left, continuing on acapella while the band members retreated to have their cigarettes. Then they were back, and the songs in the second half of the set were gone through one by one, until before she knew it, there was just one solo left. She stood there for a second, looking out at the room, wanting to say something. But Suresh had been firm on the fact that he didn't want any hints about the imminent closing of the business. He wanted the last night to be just another night, probably because he didn't want to deal with the disappointment of the regulars. So she couldn't even tell them thank you, or explain what this job had meant to her, without giving it away.

Instead, she smiled at Brittany, who was gazing at her as if she understood what she wanted to say and why she couldn't say it, and then launched into the final song. It was Nancy Sinatra's _These Boots Are Made for Walkin'_, chosen because she wanted her last solo to be somewhat upbeat, and because she did a damn sexy version of the song. It generally included flirting with both the audience and the guitarist, and this time was no exception. She made the most of it, and then before she knew it, it was over.

Finally, she gestured to Brittany, who stood and came to join her. To the room at large, she said, "I hope you don't mind, but I'm gonna bring my girlfriend up for the last song tonight." Nobody seemed to mind, but it wasn't like it mattered. She would have done it anyway.

She pulled the extra stool out from behind the drums, where she'd stashed it earlier. Brittany came up onto the stage and sat down, looking completely relaxed and at ease. Santana wondered if Millie had bought her a drink, or if it was just her natural lack of self-consciousness that ensured she wasn't bothered by stage fright.

Without bothering with any additional words of introduction, she sat down next to Brittany and waited for the music to start. The song she'd chosen was _Falling Slowly_, from Once, even though she knew it was overperformed and that there was a good chance the crowd would find it cheesy as hell. But just for tonight, she wasn't concerned about it. She'd wanted something that was a true duet, and it was a song Brittany loved. And even though they'd had to adjust it slightly so that it was within their range, she knew they sounded good on it. Maybe even good enough to make people cry.

Obviously enough to make _her _cry, she found, when they were barely into the first chorus. It wasn't just the lyrics, or the music, although that contributed. More than anything, it was the way Brittany looked at her when they sang together, the way their eyes locked, the way they seemed to exist, temporarily, in some kind of separate dimension from the rest of the world. It was the kind of thing you would never believe was possible until you'd experienced it for yourself. And though there was a tiny part of her that was still wary about displaying this kind of vulnerability in front of other people, of letting them see what Brittany did to her heart, the experience of connecting with her like this made up for the risk. It was like a drug that was worth any price. Maybe that wasn't the best analogy, but that was pretty much what it felt like. It was intoxicating.

When the last guitar chords faded away, she got off her stool first and moved over to her. Brittany stood and wrapped her arms around her. Against her ear, Santana whispered "Thank you," hoping she heard it over the sound of the cheers and applause, which was considerably louder than usual. Brittany squeezed her harder in response, then finally pulled away. Santana still stared at her, having a hard time, as usual, turning off the current that kept their eyes locked.

Eventually a voice cut through their absorption, and it was, of course, the last voice she wanted to hear.

"Nice job," Millie said, looking up at them. "Not even a bit cliché."

"Thanks," Brittany told her with a smile.

Forcing herself not to say anything, Santana guided Brittany through the band's equipment and down off the side of the stage.

Millie continued, in a thoughtful voice. "You know, if all else fails and you can't find another job, you oughtta look into the cruise ship circuit. The Fixodent crowd would just eat up those standards you're addicted to. And who knows, maybe there'd even be some blue-haired ladies who always meant to come out of the closet and just never got around to it."

Santana took a deep breath. She'd had just about as much as she could be expected to take. But before she was able to let the insults fly, Brittany spoke up, enthusiastic.

"Oh, that could be fun! I could live on the ship with you. And in between shows we could search for buried treasure."

Santana continued to give Millie a level, threatening stare for a few seconds before she turned to Brittany, smiling. "It's something to keep in mind."

Apparently realizing that she was on thin ice, and that it was probably best not to push her luck further, Millie now announced, "Well, I think it's about time for me to head out. My cat's probably gettin' lonely. Maybe I'll see y'all around?"

Before Brittany could reply, Santana jumped in with a hasty, "I wouldn't count on it." _And since when does she have a cat?_

"It was so good to talk to you, hon," Millie said to Brittany as she turned to go, with what sounded like actual sincerity this time. "You take care, now."

"Bye," Brittany called after her, waving. "Watch out for the laser rats."

Santana watched to make sure she was actually gone, trying not to let Brittany see how relieved she was when the door closed behind her. She turned back to her. "You want to get a drink before we leave?"

"Sure."

They went to the bar, where Keith was more than happy to get them free cocktails, even though the place was closing up and emptying out. In fact, it looked like he may have already had a few drinks himself. Not that it mattered at this point. Even if customers got offended, what was the worst they could do? They would all be out of a job tomorrow, regardless.

"So what did you guys talk about?" Santana said, sipping from her daiquiri. She knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't help herself.

"Nothing much." Brittany shrugged. "Cats, mostly. It turns out she has one named Lady Fluffington. Isn't that weird?"

"That _is _weird," she said wryly, staring down into her drink. "Almost hard to believe, actually."

Brittany sensed the tension, but misinterpreted the source of it. "I know things are awkward when she's around, because of... you know," she said. "Your history and everything. But you don't have to worry about it, because I like her. She seems really sweet."

"I know she _seems _that way. But, Brittany..."

"All right ladies, I'm out," Keith said, interrupting her, which was probably for the best. "You want anything else you'll have to get it yourself."

"Well, good luck," Santana told him, realizing it was the last time they'd talk. "I'm sure you'll land another job right away. Every place needs a bartender."

He seemed grateful to hear this, even though it probably wasn't true. Leaning against the bar, he asked one last time, "So, can I get your number?"

She gave him an amused look, of the _Nice try _variety. "I don't think so."

"That's what I figured."

Now he turned to Brittany, hopeful, but before he could say anything, Santana spoke up. "Nope."

Brittany gave him an apologetic smile, but didn't offer anything.

Thwarted, Keith raised his hands in a gesture of gentlemanly defeat, then took off toward the back.

After a few more minutes, Brittany tipped her glass up and drained the rest of it, giggling a little when the ice cube bumped against her nose. She put it back on the bar, then looked at Santana, a bit tentative. "You ready?"

She hesitated. But there wasn't any reason to linger. No more point in delaying. "Yeah," she said, trying not to sound depressed. "I just need to get my sheet music."

She had more copies of the music at home, so it wasn't essential. But she wanted an excuse to climb onto the stage one more time. Aside from a few waitresses and Suresh, who was likely in the back, going over the books, the place was empty. But that didn't matter. It was probably better that way.

Brittany followed her over, but waited down below while she mounted the steps. She picked up the music from where it had been scattered on the floor after the band left. She only realized now, with a pang of regret, that she'd been so distracted by Millie's annoying presence she hadn't even bothered to say goodbye to them. If they hadn't thought she was a diva before, they sure as hell did now. She shuffled the papers together and rose up, facing out over the dim, shadowy club.

By this point she'd delayed as much as possible, and it was really time to go. But for just a second, she stood there, in the same, familiar spot where she always stood, and stared out at the empty room. It wasn't her small-scale fame she was thinking of now, or all the countless nights of successful, routine performances. Instead, it was the very first one. She remembered the terror in the pit of her stomach when she'd ascended those steps, the growing panic as the room went silent and still nothing seemed to happen, the mortification of realizing how much she'd overestimated her own bravery. And then the reprieve when she'd heard that shocking and yet completely familiar voice coming out of the sea of strangers.

She smiled a little, remembering her astonishment and her joy at finding the very two people she'd been so determined to avoid. And then the way she'd very nearly ruined everything when she'd chased them away. But it had all worked out, in the end. It had worked out better than she ever would have believed. Now she stared at the darkened table where they'd sat, the chairs already upside down on top of it. She wished they'd been able to make it tonight. They should have been here.

"You ready?" Brittany asked softly.

Coming out of her reverie, she moved over toward her, letting Brittany take her hand to lead her down from the stage.

"Yep." She swallowed hard against sudden emotion that threatened to well up, and made herself sound casual. "Let's blow this joint. I'm ready for the big leagues, anyway."

Brittany pulled her close as they headed toward the door, comforting her without needing to say anything.

* * *

><p>Friday night. Friday night of a gorgeous, mild, springtime evening in the greatest city in the world. And <em>this <em>is where she was spending it.

Santana handed her NYADA season ticket to the man behind the counter, halfway hoping he would get distracted and forget to return it. But no such luck. He put it through some sort of scanner and then passed it back to her, telling her to enjoy the show. She refrained from offering any sarcastic commentary, but only with a great exercise of willpower. She still wasn't even sure why she was here. It was habit by now to attend all this stuff, since even when Kurt and Rachel weren't on stage, she knew most of the other students who were. And she'd been so distracted lately she hadn't bothered to come up with an excuse, which it occurred to her now that she probably should have done, just for pride's sake.

Because the fact was, she was still pissed at the two of them. For the past few days she'd tried to avoid them as much as possible while she waited for an apology or at least an explanation as to why they'd missed her very last show on Tuesday. Was that too much to ask for? But none had been forthcoming. They hadn't even inquired how the job hunt was going. She'd known they were self-involved, but this was a whole new level of obliviousness. And though she hated the fact that it bothered her as much as it did, she couldn't deny that it hurt.

But yet, here she was, preparing to sit through at least an hour of an Arthur Laurents tribute that the two of them weren't even directly involved in. And the horrifying thing was, she'd sort of been looking forward to it today. Was this what being in show choir had done to her? Made her secretly crave musical theater? It was like some kind of slow-building disease she hadn't even been aware she was infected with. What was next? A burning desire for tap shoes? Belting out _Good Morning Baltimore _on the way to the subway stop? Maybe she should have paid closer attention to the warning signs.

She stepped into the back of the rapidly filling theater and looked down over the rows of seats. Toward the front, but not too close to the stage, she spotted Brittany. Funny how even the back of someone's head could become so familiar that you could zero in on it in a crowd. She started toward her, but then stopped herself without knowing exactly why. Brittany was turned a little to the side now, watching a two or three-year-old girl who was entertaining her family by doing some sort of simplified ballet routine in the aisle. With a wistful smile, Brittany watched the entire thing and then clapped along with the girl's parents when it was finished.

Santana kept her eyes on Brittany, hardly registering the kid, who was really too young to be here and would probably start screaming in the middle of the performance. The words that rose unbidden to her mind were _She would make such a great mom. _Then, realizing that her brain had conjured up this thought all on its own with no prompting, she had a moment of sheer terror. Where the hell had that come from? Giving herself a little shake, she hurried down the aisle to take her seat.

Brittany looked up as she approached from the end of the row. "Hey. I was just getting ready to text you."

She gave her a quick kiss as she sat down. "They made me wait like an hour at the last place, and _then _the assholes decided to move the interview to next week."

With a sympathetic face, Brittany asked, "Any luck at the other places?"

She sighed. "Let's just say that the most promising interview I had today included the question 'Do you think you can sing _while _dancing on a pole?'"

"Oh." Brittany was quiet for a second, not wanting to say the wrong thing. "I totally think you could do that, because you're really talented. But," she hesitated. "I don't want you to. You would get groped. And not the good kind."

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna take it," she assured her, feeling a weird stab of joy at the protectiveness implied in this fear. "I'd rather go back to waitressing. Which is looking like a pretty real possibility at the moment."

Brittany studied her closely. "You don't seem all that upset about it."

"I don't know." She shrugged. "After everything that happened last month, with Pete, and with... that girl." She dropped her gaze, pausing. "This doesn't seem like such a big deal. I'm trying to just... take it in stride, you know? People lose their jobs all the time."

With a proud smile, Brittany said, "That's so mature of you."

Pleased by the support, Santana still felt the need to issue a caveat. "Yeah, well, the last thing I said to the guy at the poledancing place was that I hope he gets ass cancer and then walks in on his wife sixty-nining the elevator man. So I'm not positive that _mature _is the right word."

Brittany laughed a little. "Baby steps."

"Yeah," she said, smiling.

They fell silent for a minute, and Santana checked the time. They were early; it was still almost half an hour till the revue was supposed to begin. And as she'd expected, the toddler in the row next to theirs was already starting to get fussy. On impulse, Santana suddenly said, "You know what, screw this. What are we even doing here? Rachel's just an understudy, and Kurt's not even in the cast. They couldn't bother showing up for my very last night of work, so I don't see why I should have to waste time at some lame tribute to a dead guy who wrote some Broadway shows back in the dark ages." At this, an older woman a few rows ahead of theirs turned around to give her a dirty look. Ignoring her, but lowering her voice, Santana continued, "What do you say we bounce and go see a movie?"

Brittany seemed doubtful. "I don't know."

"Come on," she urged her, trying to convince herself as much as Brittany. "You know this whole thing is gonna be _super _gay."

Again, the woman turned to glare at her, and this time Santana responded. "Seriously, untwist your panties, Auntie Em. I play for the team, I'm allowed to make fun of the game."

Maintaining her supercilious dignity, the woman now stood up and moved off to another row.

But Brittany didn't seem to notice the exchange at all. She was staring down at her fingernails. "Santana. I _would _rather go to the movies, but... I have to tell you something first."

"Okay." She waited, confused.

Brittany drew in her breath, delaying a few more seconds, but then reluctantly seemed to force herself to say, "I didn't tell them that it was your last night. They didn't even know you got fired." She looked up, meeting her eyes. "I know I said I did, but I didn't."

Baffled, Santana waited for the punch line, or for further clarification. But Brittany was quiet now. "I don't understand," she said. "Why?"

Brittany sighed, glancing ahead at the still-closed curtain. She appeared to be struggling to find the right words. "I guess... I wanted it to be just us. It feels like they're _always _around. Especially Rachel. I know we have our picnic this weekend, but let's face it, most of the time our plans fall through. For one night, I just wanted you all to myself." She paused, looking sheepish. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," she said after a brief hesitation, uncertainly. She wasn't sure how to feel. Part of her was annoyed, but another part experienced a lift of euphoria at the words _wanted you all to myself_. In a careful voice, she said, "It's just that it doesn't seem like something you would do. I'm surprised, that's all."

"I know. I couldn't believe I did it, I felt really bad afterwards. I blame New York. I think living here is making me more selfish."

Santana laughed a little, even though, at the same time, there was something vaguely troubling about those words. What exactly did that mean? Was she trying to say that living here was _bad _for her? Or was that reading too much into it?

"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I've been so mad at them the past few days."

"I know," Brittany said, guilty. "I should have said something before. But it's been kind of nice to have a break from them, hasn't it?"

Santana wasn't quite sure what to say to this. She was experiencing a strange sense of divided loyalty, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. But before she could reply, Brittany's phone alerted her to a new text. Santana waited while she pulled it from her shoulder bag.

"I guess I spoke too soon," Brittany said with irony. "It's from Rachel." She stared down at her phone, reading the message silently.

"What does it say?" Santana prompted her.

Unwillingly, she read it out loud. "Emergency. Exclamation point. Come backstage immediately. Exclamation point, exclamation point. Both of you. Exclamation point, exclamation point, excla-"

Santana cut her off. "Okay, Britt, I got it." She stood up, worried. _Emergency_? What kind of emergency? She had a sudden morbid vision of Kurt, trapped under some kind of scenery backdrop, taking his last breath before she got the chance to tell him that she wasn't really pissed at him after all.

She maneuvered down to the end of the row as fast as possible, pulling Brittany behind her.

"Isn't it this way?" Brittany gestured toward the exit.

"I know a short cut," she said, heading toward a stage door that she knew was officially off limits to audience members and the general public. But fuck the rules. Kurt was dying.

She closed the door behind Brittany, ushering her into the backstage area. There they paused in the dimness, a sudden quiet enveloping them now that the steady murmur of the audience was cut off. She looked around the wings, noting the lack of activity. This close to show time, the place should be bustling with energy and last-minute preparations. But there seemed to be hardly anyone around. It only confirmed the sense that something dire had happened. Agitated, she began to search, sticking her head into a small green room just around the corner, where as luck would have it, Rachel was lurking.

She rushed up to them, breathless. "Santana!"

"What happened?" she demanded. "Where is he?"

Rachel stopped. "Where's who?"

She looked at her like she was an idiot. "_Kurt_."

Puzzled, Rachel glanced around. "He's helping out in wardrobe. Why?"

Santana let her breath out in relief, closing her eyes for a second. With barely restrained impatience, she asked, "Then what's the emergency?"

"Oh." She shrugged. "There isn't one, really. I just had to share my news with someone."

Brittany rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her, as if she should have expected no less.

Now Rachel came closer to them, like she needed to impart a secret. "You won't believe this." Her voice was low, but not any less dramatic because of it. "It's a total disaster. Half of the cast has been hit by some kind of epic stomach flu. Apparently one minute you're fine, and the next you're throwing up everything you've ever eaten." She lowered her tone even further, just above a whisper. "I think Polly may have it... when I saw her in makeup about ten minutes ago she looked a little green."

There was no response, and Rachel gave them both a pointed look, as if wondering why they weren't catching on. "Do you see what I'm saying? _I may get to go on as Maria_."

Santana stared at her for a few seconds in disbelief. "That's why you called us back here?"

Checking the time, Brittany said in a meaningful way, "Santana, if we leave now, we can still make it to the movies."

"The movies? _What_? No!" Rachel was horrified. "You can't leave! You have to wait with me until I find out. Please?"

Santana's first instinct was to say no, but then she reminded herself that the lingering sense of resentment she'd been carrying around since Tuesday night had no basis. She glanced back at Brittany, who seemed to be edging toward the door, with her eyebrows raised a bit as if to say _You wanted to get out of here, remember? _

Both of them were waiting for her to say something. She hated being in this position, but there was a clear choice to make here. After hesitating, she turned back to Rachel, her mind made up. "Yeah. We'll stay."

Though it was obvious that she was less than enthusiastic about this decision, Brittany didn't say anything. Resigned, she came back into the room and flopped down on a tattered sofa that was pushed back against the wall. Santana went to join her, but Brittany didn't look at her when she sat down. Instead, she reached underneath her and pulled out something that she'd sat on without noticing it. It was a Rubik's cube. After examining it, curious, she started twisting the pieces and trying to align the colors.

Rather than sitting down with them, Rachel began pacing nervously up and down the length of the room, wringing her hands together, muttering her lines to herself. After a minute it was tiresome. After a few minutes it was irritating. After five minutes it became unbearable.

Without looking up, Brittany said, "She's making me dizzy."

Santana watched as she passed by the couch once again. "Rachel, would you calm the hell down? You're acting like my abuela's chihuahua right now. I'm afraid you're gonna start leaking pee all over the floor."

Just then, Allison DuPont came into the room, looking official and directorial and carrying a clipboard.

Rachel flew at her. "Allison! Any news?"

She peered over the clipboard and, noticing Santana and Brittany, seemed about to object to their presence backstage, but Brittany gave her a friendly little wave. So instead she self-consciously raised a few stiffened fingers, and as though it were the first time she'd ever tried it, waved back. Finally she turned to Rachel, who looked to be on the verge of a heart attack. "It's bad," she admitted. "Cast, crew, hair and makeup... it's hitting us everywhere. I just came from the girls' bathroom. It's a total Bridesmaids scenario in there." She paused, and then elaborated in her typical deadpan, humorless way. "By which I mean that everyone is vomiting and having explosive diarrhea."

Santana made a face. "Yeah, thanks Allison, I think we had it at _Bridesmaids_."

"What about Polly?" Rachel asked, a desperate tinge to her voice.

"Polly's one of the worst. Let's just say she was having trouble deciding which part of her body to aim at the toilet." Allison sighed, scanning her clipboard as if searching for any way out of the current predicament. But apparently she found nothing, because with zero enthusiasm she seemed to have no choice but to tell Rachel, "Looks like you're up."

Even though she'd been anticipating this news, Rachel didn't seem to know how to react to it. She was frozen, stunned.

Santana stood up and went toward her, smiling in spite of herself. "Holy crap. You _actually _got it. And you didn't even have to poison anybody."

Trying to take it in, Rachel said slowly, "I can't believe this. It's really happening. This is the moment every understudy lives for. Someday I'll write about this in my memoirs."

"It's so sad." Brittany's voice came from behind them, on the sofa.

They both turned to look at her, confused.

"About Polly," she elaborated. "She must have been looking forward to this for so long."

"Oh. _Yeah_," Santana said, guilty. She arranged her face into a chastened expression. "It totally sucks for Polly."

"Of course," Rachel added, making her own effort to look solemn. "So, so sad. A tragedy, really." They waited another few seconds, as if to make the performance more convincing. Then, the moment of silence over, Rachel turned back to Santana, urgent. "Kurt can handle makeup and wardrobe, but you have to help me with my hair. We need to get started."

"Is there even time for that?"

Allison spoke up. "We'll have to delay the opening number by about fifteen minutes. I'll get someone to announce it. And I'd better go check up on the rest of the cast. We're dropping like flies. I just hope we have enough replacements."

"Of course we do, this is NYADA," Rachel said. "It's an entire school of replacements!" She ushered her out like with cheerleader-like passion. "Go, go!" When Allison was gone, she took a deep breath, and looked around the room, trying to restore herself to calmness. But it was useless. So instead she grasped Santana's hand and began pulling her out of the room. "We have to find Kurt. There's no time to waste."

"Rachel..." Santana stopped, forcing her to stop too. She gave her a strange look. "You're kinda hot." Brittany looked up from her Rubik's cube, alarmed.

Surprised, Rachel said after a few seconds, "Well, I... I'm very flattered, but is now really the best time?"

"I meant your _skin_, you narcissist," she said, with a massive eye roll. She pulled her hand from Rachel's grip, then reached out and felt her forehead. "You're burning up!"

"You do look sort of pale," Brittany said, getting up and coming to join them. "Are you sure you're not getting sick, too?"

"Of course I'm sure! It's just because I've been pacing back and forth, and I'm all worked up. I never get intestinal viruses." She gave an adamant shake of her head. "It's because I'm a vegan. My stomach is naturally healthier than the average person's."

"That doesn't even make sense," Santana said.

"Yes it does!" she snapped. "And I'm _fine_. So let's not mention this silly little suspicion to anyone else, okay?"

Brittany and Santana looked at each other, but it wasn't like it really mattered. If she wanted to perform while sick, it was her business. Santana said, "Whatever."

In the wardrobe area, they located Kurt, who Santana was happy to confirm with her own eyes was perfectly healthy and very much _not _dead. Though he didn't seem to know how to respond to the brief and out-of-nowhere hug she gave him, he took it in stride. At the moment he was busy trying to make costumes fit understudies who hadn't originally been intended to wear them, but since he was a loyal friend, Rachel took priority, and after she was dressed for the first number, he accompanied her to the makeup area. While he worked on her face, Santana did her hair. Brittany sat in a nearby swivel chair, looking bored, but still focused on the daunting task of the Rubik's cube.

"Rachel, you have got to stop sweating," Kurt told her. "What is wrong with you? I feel like I'm putting makeup on a jellyfish."

"I've done that," Brittany murmured.

Offended, Rachel said, "Well, it's not my fault that it's sweltering in here. Brittany, go and find the janitor and ask him to turn the air conditioning down. If he refuses, offer him a hand job."

Brittany ignored her, not even looking up.

Rachel didn't seem to notice. She was busy examining herself in the mirror, increasingly alarmed. "Kurt, you have to try harder! I can't go out there like this, I am dripping wet."

Immediately, Santana smirked and prepared to speak, but Rachel beat her to it, spinning around and pointing up at her fiercely. "Do _not _say wanky!"

Undaunted, she raised one shoulder. "I don't have to now, you said it yourself." She put the finishing touches on the corny 1950s Maria hairstyle. She'd wanted to jazz it up a little, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over well. In the mirror in front of her, Rachel seemed to be getting more pale by the minute. "You know, throwing up on stage isn't such a big deal," Santana offered, trying to be supportive. "Me and Britts have both done it before, and we lived to tell the tale."

"Yes, believe it or not, I _do _seem to recall that instance," Rachel said. Her queasiness appeared to increase at the memory.

"Of course, if you have _another _kind of accident, I'm not quite sure it would be so easy to live down," she added, unable to help how amusing the thought was. "Do you want us to make a _Depends _run while there's still time?"

"Santana, please?" She held up her hand for mercy. "Just stop talking about it. I'm not sick, I already told you."

Kurt started to say something, but then changed his mind. Using a towel, he tried to blot the moisture around her hair line.

"Maybe you'd feel better if you ate something," Brittany suggested. She finally glanced up, giving Rachel an innocent look. "I could order a pizza. Extra mushrooms. Olives. All that slimy green stuff you like."

Now Rachel closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. Feeling like a traitor, Santana tried not to laugh.

Allison came back into the room with her clipboard, flustered and distracted-looking. She stopped, staring at Rachel. "What is she doing?"

"Oh, she's um... She's meditating," Kurt explained. He smacked Rachel on the knee to alert her. "It helps her focus her creative energies."

"Well, there's no need for that," Allison told them briskly. "We're going to have to cancel. This is ridiculous. I've got upperclassmen filling in for more than half of the roles in a _freshman _revue. And even with backups, we're still down two dancers. As the senior advisor to this production, I can't in good conscience sign off on a performance of this quality. This goes on my record!"

"What?" Rachel dropped her hands, her nausea forgotten. "No, no, we are _not _cancelling. I am here, I am ready to go on... I've done everything I'm supposed to do. You will not take this away from me!"

"Believe it or not, Miss Berry? There's more at stake here than just your personal career. This could reflect badly on the entire school."

She stood up and moved closer to her. "And how do you think it reflects on the school to cancel a performance at the very last minute? Look at all those people already out there, waiting! Isn't the very first lesson we learn here that _the show must go on_... no matter what?"

Allison sighed. She didn't seem to want to admit it, but she couldn't deny the truth of this. "We don't have enough female dancers. Adam Kellerman is willing to put on a dress and fill in... and to be honest, I think he's been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. But that still leaves one."

Rachel looked around, frantic, and then her face lit up. "Brittany!"

Everyone waited for her to elaborate, Brittany included.

"Brittany is an amazing dancer. You know it firsthand, Allison, you can't deny it." She lowered her voice a bit. "I know about the private lessons she's been giving you."

Allison's face turned just the faintest shade of pink. "Those are supposed to be _secret_."

"It's _Brittany_," Rachel said with spread hands, as if this explained everything. She looked around, trying to draw on the support of the rest of the room. "Everyone knows she can't keep secrets."

"That's not true, I keep secrets all the time," Brittany spoke up for herself, realizing that no one else was going to do it. "For example, I've never told anyone about that smutty Bomb Girls fanfiction that Santana writes under the username IheartBrittBritt4life."

Santana looked shocked. "_Brittany!_"

"Oh crap, I just did, didn't I?" she said in a guilty voice. It was impossible to tell whether it had truly been an accident or not. "It's really good, though," she added. "And _really _smutty."

Kurt seemed to be attempting to make a covert note of the username on his phone.

"Don't you _dare _read it!" Santana threatened him, mortified.

Rachel was fast losing patience with the turn the conversation had taken, and made an effort to draw the focus back to herself. "Allison, look, I don't care about your secret lessons. In fact, I admire you for taking steps to improve in an area where you lacked confidence," she added, throwing in some flattery for good measure. "The only reason I brought it up is to remind you of how good she is! She can do this, I _know _it."

"She's not even a student here," Allison pointed out. "There are all kinds of legal problems with this."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures!" Rachel moved over to Brittany now, as if realizing that she hadn't even asked her yet. "You'll do it, won't you, Brittany? It'll be so much fun! Like being in high school again."

"I don't know." She seemed tempted, but extremely hesitant.

"Please?" Rachel reached out and grasped both her hands. "This means so much to me, you have no idea. This could change everything. I know it's hard for you to understand with your laidback, blowing-in-the-wind lifestyle, but this is my future. I can't afford to play around here."

At this mildly insulting description of her life, Brittany looked over at Santana, as if maybe hoping for a protest, or some defensiveness. But this time, there was nothing. Santana stood next to Kurt, both of them silent, waiting for her decision, not taking sides. It was obvious, however, what they wanted her to choose.

"I know!" Rachel exclaimed. She appeared to have had the proverbial light bulb moment. "If you agree to do this, I'll give you full creative control over my movie. You can call _all _the shots." Coaxingly, she said, "We'll get the top hat for the bird, and I'll have sex with Vocal Adrenaline, and... and the monkey! We can have the monkey."

Santana was staring at her like she was insane. "What the _hell _are you talking about?"

Rachel ignored her. "What do you say?" she asked Brittany.

Brittany considered this proposal. She seemed on the verge of accepting, but then a crafty look touched her features. "I'm willing to negotiate," she said slowly. "But that's not what I want."

"_What_, then?" Rachel was getting more agitated. "What do you want?"

She bit her lip, contemplative. After glancing at Santana, and then around the room, and then finally back at Rachel, she said, "I don't know yet. But when I think of it, you have to do it. No matter what it is." She nodded, confirming the terms. "That's the deal."

"Fine!" Rachel cried, not even taking a second to think over the implications. "_Anything_. I'll do anything."

"Okay." Brittany smiled at her. "I'll do it. But I want to be a Shark this time. The Jets are just... so white."

Rachel glanced back at Allison to see if this was possible, a pleading look in her eyes. Allison shrugged, as if to say _Why not? _She seemed to be of the opinion that the night was going to be a disaster, and so the details no longer mattered.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, Brittany," Rachel gasped in relief. She moved as if to hug her, but Brittany leaned away, alarmed.

"Oh. Right," Rachel said, restraining herself. "But I'm not sick," she couldn't resist adding.

Now everything seemed to happen in a blur, and Santana found herself standing on the sidelines. Brittany was whisked off to get a crash course in the performance routine, and Santana barely had time to get in a quick kiss and a whispered good luck before she disappeared. The room began to fill up as the rest of the cast trickled in and last-minute hair and makeup adjustments were made for people who had had no plans to be on stage tonight. Kurt was busy in wardrobe again, where he would likely have his hands full until the final curtain call, and Rachel had gone off somewhere to warm up her voice. Santana had the sense that she should be doing something useful, but there was really nothing she could help with. So she stood back and watched it all.

At last, the backstage area had that buzzy energy that had been missing before. And unexpectedly, it made her feel more lonely than she'd felt in a long time. Out of the four of them, she was now the only one who had no real part in it. She watched the last-minute preparations with a mixture of sadness and mild jealousy. It had been less than a week since she'd lost her job, so how could it be possible that she already missed it this much? But somehow, it _was _possible. Standing here, on the outside looking in, it was brought home to her in a visceral way just how much she loved performing, how much she _needed _it. How long would it be until she found something else? What if she never found anything else? The thought made her feel hollow inside.

Unusually for her, Allison seemed to notice her gloominess. Maybe spending time with Brittany had developed her ability to respond to human emotion. She came up to her. "You're not a dancer, are you? If you are, I could try to squeeze you in somewhere."

She was tempted to say yes, but it probably wouldn't be the best idea. "Not really," she admitted. "There's no way I could learn the steps fast enough." Then a different idea struck her. "You don't happen to need an Anita, do you?"

"No. Our Anita's fine. She claims she could eat a raw pig and it wouldn't make her sick." Allison added, in what for her was probably her closest attempt at a joke, "And I believe her."

"Oh," Santana said, trying not to show her disappointment. "Well, that's good."

The lights backstage flickered once, the signal that show time was imminent. "You might want to return to your seat now," Allison suggested.

To her surprise, she was reluctant to go, to return to the mundane world of the audience and leave behind this backstage realm that was both enchanted and entirely familiar, this rarefied, electrified atmosphere, that mysterious yet still tangible sense of competitiveness mixed with love and solidarity that existed among any company or cast or choir. If she couldn't be part of it, then she could at least absorb it through proximity. "What if I hang around back here and help out? I'm sure there's something I could do," she offered.

Allison gave her a skeptical look. "Do you know how to mop up puddles of vomit?"

Santana thought about this for a few seconds. "Actually, you know what, I think I'll just go back out front."

When she emerged into the theater again, she was amazed to see that it was nearly full. The seats she and Brittany had occupied earlier were taken, so she was forced to search for another vacant one. Almost right away the music started up, and the only option was to duck into the first open seat she found, which fortunately was on the aisle, but unfortunately was next to a sweating fat man who appeared to overflow from his own seat into the one she'd intended to take. _Just my luck_, she thought. But she squeezed into the space remaining, since now the lights were dimming and she didn't want to stumble over people in the dark. You never knew whether you would be the groper or the gropee in that scenario. It was better not to take chances.

The curtain opened, and the revue finally began. She couldn't tell whether the audience noticed or cared that many of the intended actors had been replaced by their understudies, or that many of the group numbers and dance interludes seemed suspiciously light on players. For some bizarre reason, she found herself hoping that nobody minded and that the production would meet a warm response. Even though she wasn't a student here, she felt a bit of a proprietary attachment to the place. And of course, she wanted Brittany's first post-high school gig to be a good experience.

But it seemed that it would be a while before Brittany went on, so Santana settled back to wait and tried to enjoy the other segments of the revue. First were some selections from La Cage aux Folles, which were good, though she couldn't help thinking that Kurt should have been involved, and she felt vaguely annoyed on his behalf. _He would knock this flamboyant shit out of the park, _she thought_. _But he hadn't particularly seemed to care, and she wasn't even sure if he'd auditioned. Also, he'd seemed perfectly happy working behind the scenes, backstage.

Next up was a Gypsy segment, and she spotted Eli in the role of Herbie. The guy was almost _too _good at playing straight. Maybe that was why she found him so boring. She made a mental note to try to get to know him better, especially if things really were getting serious between him and Kurt. After all, he couldn't possibly be more uninteresting than Blaine.

Finally, when she was starting to get impatient, the West Side Story portion of the revue began. The entire crowd seemed to perk up, so obviously it had been saved till last for a reason. After some brief and shortened expository scenes, they launched into the first featured musical number, which was, as luck would have it, _Dance at the Gym_. Santana sat forward on the edge of her seat, searching for Brittany. She spotted her right away, in an emerald green dress that flared out around her legs with every whirl.

She bit her lip to try to keep in check the ridiculous, no doubt-dopey smile that wanted to break over her face, but it was no use. As always, Brittany was fucking _incredible_. She moved with such ease and grace, yet with such beautiful precision. Somehow she managed to dance with her entire body, totally losing herself in the performance, in a way none of the others on that stage seemed capable of doing. How could anyone keep their eyes off of her? Maybe it was her bias showing, but Santana was pretty damn sure she was the best one up there. It was almost inconceivable that she'd had so little rehearsal time. She danced with perfect fearlessness and confidence. And even from here, Santana could tell that whether she'd joined the cast willingly or not, Brittany was enjoying the hell out of herself. Not just her face, but her whole being seemed transported, lit from within by the glow of exhilaration.

As she continued to watch her, the sense of admiration and awe she felt was nearly overwhelming. She was so proud that it was impossible to keep it to herself. She had to share it with _somebody_, it didn't even matter who it was. So she turned to the fat man next to her, who for all his girth was at least dressed well, in a pricey-looking tailored suit. He also smelled like expensive cologne, which earned him points in her judgment scale. Poking his arm to get his attention, she waited until he turned a questioning look toward her, then whispered, "That's my girlfriend, in the green dress. She's filling in for someone who's sick."

He glanced at the stage, then gave her a polite nod.

But this wasn't enough to satisfy her, so she added, "She just learned this whole routine tonight, like an hour ago. She doesn't even go to this school. That's how much of a natural she is."

Another nod and a tiny distracted smile, but otherwise, nothing. He clearly didn't seem to be grasping the magnitude of Brittany's awesomeness.

Santana waited a few seconds. Then, unable to help herself, she leaned toward him again and whispered, "I get to have sex with her tonight."

Now the man turned his full, surprised attention on her. After studying her briefly, he said in a dry tone, "Congrats."

She smirked with triumph and returned her focus to the stage, feeling like she'd accomplished her mission.

After an alarmingly pale Rachel trilled her way through _Tonight_, Brittany was back on stage again for _America_. Santana kept her eyes glued on her, suffused with pride. But for this number, her enjoyment was somewhat marred by an uncomfortable, nagging sense of envy - not toward Brittany, but just toward the cast in general, and especially the blocky, plodding Anita, who had about as much stage presence as a mule and who kept distracting Santana's attention despite her best efforts to focus only on Brittany. Who the hell was this broad, anyway? She looked like Cheech. Or Chong. Whichever one was uglier. Santana watched her dubiously, arms crossed with resentment. _That should be me up there._ She couldn't help the bitterness of the thought, even though it made no real sense.

The show continued, and even from here, it was clear that Rachel seemed to be getting weaker in each scene she was in. It was fortunate that due to the nature of the revue itself, most of the songs and all of the dialogue interludes had been shortened. Many had been cut altogether. Still, though, by _Somewhere_, she was as white as a sheet and visibly sweating. But if you weren't looking too close, it would be hard to tell, since there was no change in her voice or in the emotion she poured into the song. Santana couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration.

She turned to the man next to her, feeling the need to share once again. "That's my roommate playing Maria," she whispered to him. "You can't tell, but she's trying really hard not to puke on Tony right now." She watched for a few more seconds, then added fondly, "She's a total pro. She's gonna be famous someday." And she knew the words were true by the stab of jealousy that hit her as she said them.

The fat guy acknowledged her shared confidence by checking his watch.

She'd been dreading _A Boy Like That_, and halfway hoping it would be cut from the production entirely, since it wasn't as iconic as the other songs. But no such luck. Those familiar, dramatic opening chords struck up, and now, without the distraction of Brittany's spectacular talent to make her weak in the knees (among other parts), there was nothing to keep her from dwelling on her indignation over the actress playing Anita. Lacking any other options, she decided to voice her frustrations to her new friend.

"Come _on_," she scoffed in a loud whisper, leaning toward him. "Where did they get this skank, from some cracked-out Kids Incorporated knock-off? I could do a better Anita in my sleep. She has _no _game. Not to mention the fact that I can see her mustache from here."

The guy now turned to her with an air of irony, and paused for a second, as though relishing what he was about to tell her. "That's my daughter."

"Oh." She raised her eyebrows, freezing as she took this in. _Shit_. After a few seconds of strained silence, she whispered, "I like that she went with the New Jersey accent. And you know, I always thought Anita _should _be a little on the heftier side. It makes her more maternal."

She slowly leaned back in her own seat again, deciding that from this point on, it would probably be wisest to enjoy the performance in silence.

And thank God, there wasn't too much longer to wait. Two more numbers, including a grand finale medley, and it was over. Partly so that she could avoid facing her seatmate once the lights came back on (since she now suspected he might be part of the Italian mafia), she ducked into the aisle before the final curtain call was over, heading toward the stage door again.

On the other side, predictably, things were chaotic and jubilant. There was the collective euphoria at a successful show, especially in the face of such odds, and the amped-up nostalgia now that it was all over. But on the whole, everything was more subdued than she would have expected. Some of the exhausted cast members seemed simply relieved that they'd pulled it off. And more than a few now stumbling out of the wings looked to be headed straight for the bathrooms.

Santana stepped up onto a riser to make it easier to scan the dimly-lit space. Without too much effort, she spotted Brittany chatting with one of the other dancers. Coming up behind her just as the other girl moved off, she wrapped her arms around her and breathed against her ear, "Hey, you. Do you have any idea how hot you made me?"

"Allison?" Brittany asked.

Santana dropped her arms and came around from behind her. "No, it's _me_."

"I know," she laughed, pulling her forward for a kiss.

Leaning back just slightly after their lips parted, Santana remained standing on her toes in order to look straight into Brittany's eyes. "I can't even describe how good you were. There aren't enough words in the language."

Brittany rolled her eyes a little, pleased. "Come on."

"I'm serious. I guarantee you every person in that audience was jealous of whoever gets to go home with you tonight. In fact," she spoke even softer now, flirtatious. "I'm not sure I can _wait _until we get home. Maybe we should just get a hotel room, right here in Midtown?"

"We can't afford that," Brittany said. But she seemed tempted.

"Then how about we find us a dark storage room, right here?" She pressed against her, tantalizingly. "I know where they keep the stage sets for the bedroom scenes."

Brittany grinned at her, and was on the verge of replying, when they noticed someone coming toward them. Regretful, they turned. It was Rachel. But for some reason, she was silent. She looked at Brittany and gave her a thumbs-up gesture, with a tight, closed-mouth smile.

"Thanks," Brittany said, puzzled.

"Well, I don't know how you did it, but you did," Santana told her. Right now, she was happy enough to give credit where credit was due. "You were amazing."

"Yeah, you really were," Brittany seemed forced to admit. "I don't know how the Tony Awards work, but you should definitely get nominated for best understudy."

They waited for her to reply, but she continued to give them the strained smile, lips pressed together.

After a few seconds, Santana realized why. "You're gonna hurl, aren't you?"

"Mm-hm," Rachel nodded, still not opening her mouth. She pushed between them, frantic, headed for the trash barrel in the corner.

Though it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, Santana followed her, pulling her hair out of the way just before she started throwing up. Grimacing, she turned her head away and gave Brittany an apologetic look. "Sorry," she told her.

"That's okay." She gave a weary, understanding shrug, as though even in her current state of pique with Rachel, she couldn't blame her for getting sick. Then a strange look flitted across her face, and she put her hands on her stomach. "Actually, I'm not feeling that great myself."

While Rachel continued to retch, Kurt came into the room behind Brittany. His skin was even more translucent than usual, and now _he _was sweating too.

"You've got to be kidding me," Santana said, looking him over.

He nodded, confirming it. "I suppose it's only fitting that any stomach bug that hits NYADA would be just a bit more overdramatic and show-offy than your average virus." He paused, wincing a little. "Under the circumstances, we should probably take a cab home."

Rachel raised her head weakly up out of the trash barrel. "One with a bucket in it," she added, then doubled over again.

* * *

><p>Even behind her closed eyelids, Santana could see the bright sunlight that poured onto her face. In the breeze the light flashed and flickered and dappled through the new blossoms of the cherry tree she lay under, quick contrasts between shadows and the red of her own blood. She exhaled deeply, tilting her head back against the blanket and letting the scent of green grass and the warmth of the sun lull her into something very close to sleep.<p>

Not _actual _sleep, of course. That probably wouldn't be the best idea here in Central Park, even with the safe and sanitized reputation the place had these days. But the drowsy post-picnic state she felt herself drifting into was close enough. Without opening her eyes, she reached out to feel the warm pressure of Brittany's body next to hers, knowing, of course, that she'd find her there but feeling reassured all the same. She inched a bit closer to her, and felt Brittany's hand come to settle on her hip. Contented, she let her whole body relax.

They'd finally made it here, for their longed-for day at the park. Although it wasn't the weekend any longer. They'd missed this past weekend, completely, as though it had been wiped right off the calendar. So had Kurt and Rachel. By the time they'd all arrived back at the apartment on Friday night, Brittany was a greenish color, and Kurt's stomach had been making ominous gurgles from the front seat of the taxi. It was all Santana could do to usher them up three flights of stairs to the fourth floor. She was thankful that she felt fine, herself. Someone had to take care of the rest of them.

But then, after getting them all to bed and crashing on the couch, she'd awakened at about 1:00 in the morning with the strangest sense that she'd been on a boat, a boat that was being tossed around like a toy in a storm-ravaged ocean. And for some reason, the entire boat smelled like the memory of Finn Hudson's deodorant. She'd clamped her hands over her mouth, barely making it to the bathroom in time.

So it was official, then. They all had it, whatever it was. Santana had staggered back to her own bed, weak and already achy. She'd drifted in and out of feverish consciousness, chilled and thankful for Brittany's warmth against her back. At one point, she'd felt Brittany come back from the bathroom and slide into bed next to her, and by instinct she'd draped an arm around her to pull her close. But wait a minute. Brittany's arm was already draped around _her_. From the other side of the bed.

Santana raised up and peered down at the newly-arrived form on her left side. "Rachel?"

"What?" came the faint and pitiful reply.

"What are you doing in here?"

"This is my room."

"No, it's not. We switched, remember?"

There was a long, confused pause before the answer. "Oh." But she didn't open her eyes or make any motion to leave.

Santana flopped back down and rolled over to face Brittany, already fading into sleep again.

Soon after this, or maybe longer, since it was hard to tell with that strange, elastic shape that a fever gives to ordinary time, she became aware of more shifting in the bed, and she forced her eyes open only to find Kurt climbing in on Brittany's side. Brittany obligingly made room for him, without seeming to wake up.

"What the hell are you doing?" Santana asked him in a whisper.

"It's _freezing _in here," he said, teeth chattering for emphasis. "Why should everyone get to cuddle without me?"

She wanted to point out that cuddling should be the last thing on anyone's mind, particularly considering that all of them now smelled faintly of vomit, but it was too much trouble. She closed her eyes and within seconds was asleep again. And that was how it came to pass that the four of them spent the remainder of the night in the same bed, huddled together like fairy tale peasants. Santana vowed to herself that when she was feeling better, she would draw up a contract exacting severe financial penalties if any of them ever breathed a word about it to a living soul.

All through Saturday, they shivered, groaned, battled each other for the toilet, and when that was occupied, the kitchen trash bin. Their fevers went up and down, and Santana became especially alarmed when, during the early afternoon hours, Brittany's temperature neared 103. Santana pressed a wet cloth to her forehead as she tossed and turned in the bed, delirious. "Mom?"

"She's not here, sweetie." She turned the cloth over to the cool side. "_I'm_ here, though."

"I want my mom," Brittany pleaded. "Will you go get her?"

"Yeah, I'll go and call her right now," she promised.

But she hadn't. She knew this made her a terrible person. Even to herself, she wouldn't attempt to deny it. It was the fear that stopped her - the fear that Mrs. Pierce would march right out her front door in Lima and be on a plane within the hour. What if having her here made Brittany realize how much she missed her? What if her mom tried to take her back home? It felt like too big of a risk. To her relief, though, Brittany's fever had abated soon afterwards, and she didn't even seem to remember that she'd made the request. Within a few hours she was propped up on the couch, drained of energy but coherent, watching Will and Grace reruns with Kurt.

At some point, they received word via text that the remaining performances of the NYADA revue had been cancelled, but even Rachel was beyond caring. Her only response to the news was to burrow deeper into the arm chair and pull an afghan over her head. It also didn't escape Santana or Brittany's notice that, true to Brittany's earlier worries, their picnic plans had fallen through. Just another thing they would have to reschedule.

The four of them did their best to take care of each other over the course of the miserable weekend, but since they were all suffering from the same flu, there was only so much they could manage. Somehow, the neighbors became aware of what was going on, and they picked up the slack. Rhonda stopped by twice a day to look after the parrot, since the fruity scent of the bird seed meant that none of them could go near the cage without gagging. Mr. Bloom came by with a case of Gatorade to keep them hydrated, proving that he did, on occasion, drink non-alcoholic beverages. And Mrs. Nguyen brought over a pot of some kind of Vietnamese soup that looked appalling, but tasted like heaven, and which they miraculously managed to keep down, for the most part.

Even with the windows wide open to let in the brisk spring air, it went without saying that by the end of the weekend the smell in the apartment was, to put it delicately, less than pleasant. For once, Santana didn't protest or blow out the vanilla-scented candles that Rachel lit in every room.

By Sunday afternoon the worst seemed to be over, although they decided to stay home from their respective jobs and classes on Monday anyway, to take an extra day to sleep and recuperate, as well as to scrub the apartment clean and catch up on laundry. Monday night, finally, they all managed a regular meal.

On Tuesday morning, Santana had watched Brittany pull herself from bed to prepare to face her normal, regularly scheduled day. She had classes later, herself, and a job interview. It was time to get back to life as usual. But the sun was shining through the window, so bright. Birds were singing, one of them even perching on the windowsill for a few seconds, like something in a cartoon. It looked like a perfect spring day. How could they waste it? So she'd suggested that they play hooky for just one more day and go to the park. Who cared if it wasn't the weekend? Even better, since it would mean the place would be less crowded. And they already had the perfect excuse, since they could say they were still sick and no one would question it.

It hadn't taken much persuading to convince Brittany. So she'd called in to the dogwalking agency, and Santana had emailed her teachers. Invigorated by their rebellion, they'd fallen back into bed for a while, making up for lost time. Then they'd had a light breakfast of bagels out on the fire escape balcony as they waited for Kurt and Rachel to leave for classes, hoping they wouldn't ask to tag along. (They hadn't, since Rachel was eager to soak up the praise she expected to get at school for saving the musical.) Once they had the place to themselves, they took their time getting ready to leave, enjoying a leisurely bubble bath, a nice contrast to the quick showers they usually grabbed in the morning. It was already past noon when they got off the subway in Manhattan at Fifth Avenue and 59th, deciding to start at the south end of the park and work their way into the center. As promised, Santana made no protests when Brittany made a beeline for the zoo, dragging her by the hand to hurry her along the few blocks north.

Once inside, Brittany dove delightedly into the chaos of the petting zoo, wanting to touch everything that moved. Santana hung back at a distance, trying not to step in anything, clutching the edges of her expensive jacket to keep it out of the mouths of goats. "No, no! _¡Vete!_" she commanded, pointing her finger warningly at a sheep that approached her. But then she felt a little bad when it lowered its head and moved away, obviously with its feelings hurt.

After about fifteen freaked-out minutes, she'd decided to see if Brittany would consider leaving yet. She found her crouched down with a tiny, spotted fawn, giggling as she let the deer lick up and down the inside of her forearm.

"_Brittany_," she said, alarmed. What it if had a disease or something? What if deer spit was toxic?

"What?" She looked up at her. "Don't worry, I still like your tongue best."

Santana turned her head and gave an awkward smile to the elderly couple and their grandchildren who were standing next to her. When they'd moved off, she pulled Brittany to her feet and managed to convince her, with a little sweet talking, that they needed to get moving if they wanted to have time for all the other things they'd planned to do today.

Out in the park and wandering around again, Santana had found to her surprise that she didn't get to play the role of tour guide to the extent that she'd anticipated, since it turned out Brittany's job often brought her here. It was the perfect spot to walk the dogs owned by the rich people who lived in the neighborhoods surrounding the park. So, in many respects, she was more familiar with the place than Santana was.

"C'mere, I want to show you something really cool," she said as they neared a playground a few blocks north of the zoo. Excited, she led Santana to a stop in front of an elaborate Alice in Wonderland statue, complete with toadstools and Mad Hatter. "I found this a few weeks ago."

"Wow," Santana said, not even having to feign being impressed. "I've never even seen it before."

"And you know what else?" Brittany asked her, nudging her temptingly. "You're allowed to climb on it."

Santana smiled at her, trying to resist the persuasion. "I'm pretty sure it's for _kids_."

"So?" She considered, looking around, and then handed her shoulder bag and her camera over. "Well, I'm gonna do it. Here, hold these."

So Santana stood there, laughing and feeling like a tourist, watching Brittany climb up onto the monument.

Once on the toadstool, Brittany examined the cast-bronze Alice's face close up. "I sort of want to make out with her," she admitted.

"_Brittany_!" But then Santana glanced around, to make sure there was nobody else in the immediate vicinity other than a few women with baby strollers who seemed to be absorbed in conversation. "Okay, go ahead," she told her, holding the camera up. If her girlfriend was going to make out with a literary monument, she wanted to capture it for posterity.

After they'd finished molesting the statue, they headed deeper into the park, backtracking south just a bit, because Santana claimed she had a surprise. As they approached, she made Brittany close her eyes for just a second, leading her by the hand along the pathway.

"Okay, _now_," she told her, giving her permission to look.

Brittany opened her eyes and gasped in wonder, taking in the old-fashioned carousel in front of her. "It's beautiful. Can we go on it?"

"No, I thought we'd just stand here and stare at it for a while."

"Oh." Brittany looked down at her shoes.

"I'm _kidding_," she said, giving her a playful shove. "Come on."

They paid the fare and then chose two horses, side by side. "God, these horses are so ghetto," Santana remarked. But other than this observation, she gave in to the thrilling cheesiness of it. Even though it was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing she'd done since arriving in the city (well, at least the most ridiculous _sober _thing), Santana found that she didn't give a damn. She didn't even care if people stared at them, or at their linked hands that bridged the short gap between their bodies as they were lifted slowly up and down, around and around the circle, to the soundtrack of the calliope music. Maybe she was at risk of losing any badass cred she'd ever possessed, but it was worth it to see the joy on Brittany's face. She didn't even protest when Brittany wanted to go around again, and then one more time for good measure.

After the carousel, they headed toward the boathouse on the lake. This was Brittany's idea, and Santana was a bit hesitant. "I don't know about this," she said, looking out at the water.

"Come on," Brittany urged her. "You can't have a romantic day at Central Park without a boat ride. It's like a law or something."

So she let herself be guided down into the rowboat, tense and trying not to tip it over. Once they were seated and headed out to the middle of the lake, however, she relaxed a bit. This wasn't so bad. Once you figured out the knack of paddling in the opposite direction from where you wanted to go, it was pretty easy. And there was no questioning that the day was perfect for it. A light breeze rippled the surface of the water, and all along the rim of the lake, the trees with their new leaves had that gauzy, pastel, airbrushed quality of early spring. Most of the flowering trees and bushes were likewise in bloom, providing a splash of riotous color against the weathered city buildings in the background. It was like the essence of New York City distilled into one perfect image. She took a deep breath, feeling the sun warm the top of her head.

At one point, drifting out from under the shadows of Bow Bridge and into the renewal of bright light, she caught Brittany staring at her in a peculiarly intense way.

"What?" she asked.

Brittany smiled a little and looked away, self-conscious. "Nothing."

In response to this bit of cuteness, Santana dipped her hand into the water and gave her a tiny splash.

"Hey, do you think it's warm enough to swim yet?" Brittany asked.

"No," she said in a pointed way. "And you're not allowed to swim in this lake, anyway."

"Well... you _would _be if your boat tipped over, because then you wouldn't have any choice," she reasoned.

"Don't you _dare_."

"I'm just kidding," she said with a grin. She continued to stare down into the water, thoughtful. After a few seconds she asked, "Can Rachel swim?"

Santana gave her a confused look. "I don't know. Why?"

"No reason," she said quickly.

They stayed out for almost all of their allotted hour, then headed back to the boathouse. By this point, they were both beginning to feel tired, the lingering weakness from being sick all weekend catching up with them. So it was decided that now would be the perfect time for the actual picnic. They hadn't brought anything with them, so they bought sandwiches from a nearby food cart, then headed to Cherry Hill, overlooking the lake. To complete the picturesque nature of it all, Santana shook out a thin blanket that had been crammed into her purse before they left this morning, and they settled themselves down on it.

They took their time over their late lunch, the calm marred only once when a wayward frisbee smacked into Brittany's video camera. She smiled and told the embarrassed guy who came to fetch it back from them that it was no big deal. But Santana noticed a mild sense of alarm on her face when she checked to see if it was still working, which, mercifully, it was.

After eating, they'd stretched out in the sun to rest, and that was where Santana now found herself, the late afternoon light beginning to slant over the western side of the park. Still with her eyes closed, she felt a strange sensation on her leg. Squinting through half-opened lids, she laughed and relaxed again when she realized it was only Brittany, sitting up now and walking her fingers idly up and down the length of her thigh.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." The walking fingers paused, and she rested her palm flat. "I was just thinking about that weird phobia you used to have about people touching that spot above your knee. You were so ticklish there you freaked out if anyone even _acted _like they were gonna do it."

"Oh, yeah." She made her voice deliberately casual. "That was a long time ago. I'm not ticklish there anymore."

"Really?" There was the slightest trace of amusement in her eyes.

"Yes, really. Just take my word for it."

"Okay." Then, a few seconds later (because who could resist that kind of temptation?), she reached for the spot above her knee, and, as expected, Santana went into full self-defense mode trying to block her. For a minute they tussled and squealed and shrieked as they wrestled on the blanket. Eventually, in a maneuver she wasn't sure how she'd accomplished, Santana wound up on top, pinning Brittany's hands above her head.

"That's more like it," she panted. Because their faces were already so close anyway, she leaned in a few inches to kiss her. When she began to pull back, Brittany raised her head, following her, so she gave in to it and let it draw itself out into one of those kisses that feels like it could potentially keep going forever, a kiss like a Russian novel, made up of long chapters and epochs and a million words all linked together in one breath. They lost track of time and the world around them.

When she finally came up for air, drawing Brittany's lower lip with her before reluctantly releasing it, she glanced around. "People are staring," she murmured.

"Does that bother you?" Brittany seemed curious, but not too worried.

To her own surprise, she didn't even need to think about the answer. "Not anymore. Not here."

Brittany smiled in response, reaching up to kiss her again, while at the same time her hands moved up under Santana's shirt, lifting it a bit. She felt the light breeze on her bare skin.

Breaking their kiss with regret, Santana pulled it back down, smiling. "Okay, let's not get carried away. Just because I'm not ashamed doesn't mean I want to get _arrested_."

Brittany sat up again, reaching for her bag. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Look what I have." Digging down into the bottom of the bag, she drew out a bottle of cheap champagne, still cool enough to be beaded with moisture. She held it up like a showcase model.

Santana gasped in delight. "You've been carrying that around all day?"

"Mh-hm. And that's not all." She produced two drinking flutes from the bag, passing one over to her.

"You are such a stud," Santana told her in an admiring tone.

Brittany grinned in reply, but modestly admitted, "They're just plastic." She gestured toward the bottle. "You have to open it, though. It scares me."

Santana obligingly took the bottle, and as she prepared to pop the cork, Brittany stuck her fingers in her ears and winced, jumping a little when the inevitable _pop _came. Passing the bottle back to her, Santana waited while she poured some for each of them. "So, what are we celebrating?"

"I don't know." She gave it some thought. "A perfect day, I guess?"

"It _has _been perfect, hasn't it?" She smiled a little, wistful. Then they clinked, or rather tapped, the plastic glasses together, drinking at the same time.

"Oh, I do have some news, though," Brittany said. "Guess what I found out yesterday. It turns out? My uncle is leaving me his farm when he dies."

Santana thought about this, puzzled. "Your uncle with the goats?"

"Yep," she said, taking another sip of the champagne. "He has other stuff too. Horses and some pigs. And a turkey that thinks it's a Republican senator."

Suddenly realizing that this bequest might imply bad news for the Pierce family, she asked, "Wait, is he dying right _now_?"

"No, not that I know of." Brittany was unconcerned. "But with his paint-huffing addiction and just the one lung, it may only be a matter of time."

"Wow. Then, congratulations," she said, raising her glass. "That land will be worth a fortune."

Brittany lowered her glass after another sip, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when you sell it." She said it like it should be obvious.

"Why would I sell it? I love that place. I thought we could live there someday."

"On a farm in Ohio?" She scoffed a little before she could think better of it, then regretted it immediately when she saw the hurt look on Brittany's face.

"I said _someday_." She paused, as if the thought had just occurred to her. "I mean... do you want to live in New York _forever_?"

Santana didn't answer right away. She felt like she should proceed with caution, not say the wrong thing again. "I don't know," she finally ventured. "Maybe." In her head, though, she was surprised to find that the answer wasn't _maybe_. It was _absolutely_.

"Oh." Brittany stared down at the blanket. There was an uncomfortable silence.

Santana swallowed against a sudden feeling of mild panic. Trying hard not to show it, she forced herself to say in a calm voice, "I thought you liked it here?"

"I do. I mean, there's a lot that I like about it. But then, there's a lot that I don't like, too. I don't like the way that everyone's always in a hurry. I don't like the way the rich people who own the dogs I walk act like I'm invisible. I don't like how strangers look at me like I'm crazy when I try to start a conversation on the subway."

"Britt, you've got to stop doing that," she said gently.

"I know, I know." She rolled her eyes, since it wasn't the first time she'd heard it. "I guess it's just hard to get used to people being so different. And I feel like I don't have that many friends here. Pete's gone." She paused, sad. "I guess I could count Allison, even though I'm not sure she would agree. It's hard for me to meet people. For you guys, it's different. You've got school, and you know people from work. But all I do during the day is walk dogs. And, I mean, they're really good listeners... but it's not like they talk back, you know? Except for this one Yorkie from the Lower East Side, but he has such a thick Yiddish accent I can hardly understand him."

"I get that, I do," Santana said, sympathetic. "I guess I just didn't realize." She probably _should _have realized it, though. Brittany liked having a lot of friends. In high school, it had come so naturally to her. Everyone loved her, and she made no distinctions based on the categories that kept other people in their respective cliques. It stood to reason that she might feel a little lonely now that she'd left all that behind. Their world here must feel a bit insular to her, which was ironic considering how huge the city was. As if it had only just occurred to her, she said, "We don't really hang out with that many people, do we?"

"Not really," Brittany said. "But it's okay. I'm working on branching out." As an aside, she added, "Oh, I'm having lunch with Millie this week, so that's a start."

Santana looked up in shock. "Millie? As in, _Amelia_? From the restaurant?"

"Well, yeah." She gave her a strange look. "Do you know more than one?"

"Brittany, _no_." Her tone was adamant, indignant. "You are _not _hanging out with her. Forget it."

Her eyebrows went up, her expression taken aback. It took her a few seconds to reply. "Um, okay."

Realizing she'd been too abrupt, Santana tried to backtrack. "No, you're right, that came out wrong. What I meant to say was, you can't hang out with her, so _please _forget it." She waited, hopeful. But this correction didn't seem to have the desired effect.

"I get that maybe it seems weird," Brittany said. "But... you can't really tell me who to hang out with. What's the big deal?" A troubling idea seemed to occur to her. "You don't still have feelings for her, do you?"

"_God_, no. I'm not even sure I had any to begin with."

"Then what are you worried about?" Brittany was genuinely trying to understand. "Do you think I'm gonna sleep with her?"

"Of _course _not!" she protested. "That's not it, at all."

"What, then?"

She was stuck for a minute, unsure of what to say. She couldn't tell her the truth, that Millie was mocking her right to her face and she wasn't even aware of it. She just couldn't. She knew how much it would hurt her. So she tried to edge around it with a more general description. "Millie's insane, okay? She's really, really messed up, Britt." She enumerated the list, counting it off on her fingers. "She's fake. She's a pathological liar, she's addicted to painkillers. She's not even out of the closet yet. Her religious freak parents have warped her mind so much that I think she's still convinced she's going to hell."

"Yikes." Brittany took all this, considering it. But it only caused her stubbornness to reassert itself. "Then it sounds like she definitely needs a friend."

Santana sighed, frustrated. "Brittany. You're such a good person. But sometimes, I just worry that you trust people too easily."

"Well, sometimes I worry that you don't trust people enough." Under her breath, she added, "Except for _certain _people."

Santana didn't appear to notice the last part. Plaintively, she asked, "So, it doesn't even matter to you that I don't want you to see her? You're just gonna do it anyway?"

"Santana." Brittany seemed to be trying to keep her patience. "You don't want me to go home to Lima for a visit. You don't want us to live on a farm in Ohio. You don't want me to hang out with Millie. It just seems like a lot of the decisions we make lately are based on what _you _want."

"That isn't fair." She spoke softly, hurt. But it _was _fair. She knew it was. And there was that warning voice in her head again, the one saying _You're smothering her, you fucking dipshit_. She had the strangest sense of herself trying to catch a butterfly, only instead of a net, she was using a heavy-duty tarp.

They sat there on their picnic blanket for a minute without speaking, while the routine sounds of the beautiful springtime afternoon drifted to them; laughter of kids just out of school for the day, pigeons cooing, the distant noise of traffic mixed with irritated honking. But the peacefulness seemed to have been shattered. Already, the beginnings of the conversation were lost to Santana. She couldn't even remember how things had taken such a wrong turn.

"I'm sorry," Brittany said in a low voice, like she was thinking the same thing.

"Don't be sorry. You're just being honest."

She was quiet for a second, still contrite. "Did I ruin our perfect day?"

"No. Definitely not." Santana smiled at her. Then she looked up, over and past Brittany's head, and her expression changed to annoyance. She sighed. "But it looks like Daphne and Velma might."

Brittany turned to see what she was staring at, and was disappointed to find not the Scooby-Doo characters, but only Kurt and Rachel, the two of them moving down the slope of the hill in their direction. "You've got to be kidding me," she said. "How do they even know where we are?"

Santana suspected that the simple answer to this question was that, like an idiot, she'd chosen the exact spot for their picnic that the three of them had used more than once in the fall, before the weather turned cold. And apparently they'd predicted, correctly, that she'd return to the same familiar place. But Brittany had a different theory.

"Okay, I didn't want to say anything before," she said in a confidential tone, leaning forward. "But I think we have to look at the possibility that Rachel may have secretly implanted you with some kind of tracking device."

"_What_?"

"I think later you should let me examine every millimeter of your body to see if I can find it."

She started to protest, but actually, that didn't sound so bad. "Okay," she said.

Now she looked up as they came closer. Rachel was already speaking, holding up her hand defensively as they approached. "I know, I _know_," she said off of their incredulous looks. "We're not here to interrupt your adorable little lesbian picnic... I promise we won't stay. It's just that we have some really exciting news, and we wanted to deliver it in person." She looked at Kurt, as if they'd agreed to take turns.

He continued, clasping his hands together in front of him. "All right, well, prepare yourselves, because we just came from campus, and -"

"We ran into Professor Barrett!" Rachel interrupted him, unable to contain her excitement. "She's the head of the dance department, and her background is to die for. Not only has she choreographed for multiple Tony-winning musicals, but she's friends with Laura Bell Bundy!" she exclaimed, caroling the last part in a sing-song voice.

Brittany thought about this. "That girl from Married With Children?"

"She's hot," Santana supplied.

"Totally," Brittany agreed. "Did you see the one where she bought a motorcycle?"

"What... _what_?" Kurt sputtered. "Who is that? Who are they talking about?"

"Not _Kelly _Bundy, Laura Bell Bundy," Rachel clarified. "The Broadway star? She was the original Elle Woods in Legally Blonde: The Musical!"

Brittany and Santana both continued to stare at her, blankly.

Kurt shook his head in bafflement. "Why are we friends with them?" he asked Rachel.

"All right, well, leaving aside the appalling state of your theatrical knowledge," Rachel continued, undaunted. "I think even you two will be able to appreciate this news."

"Are you sitting down?" Kurt asked, excited again.

Confused, Brittany glanced down at their bodies as though to confirm that they were, in fact, sitting down. "Yes."

Rachel went on. "It turns out, Brittany, that the faculty saw you dancing in the revue the other night, and they were _very _impressed, to say the least. They couldn't stop gushing about you today. And not only that, but with a little prompting from yours truly - "

Kurt cleared his throat.

"_Ours _truly," Rachel corrected, gesturing to both of them. "Professor Barrett would like to offer you an audition." She stopped, waiting for the reaction.

Brittany still seemed to be waiting for something, though. "An audition for what?"

"For _admittance_," Kurt explained. "To NYADA."

"Oh my God." Santana turned to her, stunned. "Britt... that's amazing."

"It's very rare," Rachel added. "This is not a school that seeks people out. They're inundated with overqualified applicants every year."

"But the fact that you've already been involved in a production will give you a major leg up," Kurt said. "Not to mention that you have the two of us as references, and I don't want to toot my own horn, but... we _do _have a little pull there. Your chances of getting in are really good."

"Of course, you wouldn't start until next fall. You'd be in the class below ours." Rachel paused, as if realizing that Brittany still hadn't said anything. "So... what do you think?"

"I... I don't even know what to think." The expression on her face was a mixture of wonder, bewilderment, but also a slight hint of something almost like dread. She looked like somebody who'd just gotten news of an unexpected pregnancy.

"I have to say, I thought there'd be a _little _more enthusiasm," Kurt chuckled, trying to sound good-humored, but obviously a bit perturbed.

"No, I'm sorry, you guys, it's awesome." Brittany stood now, moving toward them for a hug. "Thank you so much." Pulling away, she added, "It's just, like, a huge surprise, you know? I never even considered going to that kind of school."

Rachel smiled at her. "Well, I guess it's time to consider it."

"I will." She nodded. "I'll think about it."

"This is a huge opportunity for you," Kurt added.

Just then, a carriage drawn by two thin, tired-looking horses appeared on the nearby path, circling around the fountain. Rachel watched the driver, her gaze turning from pleasant to murderous.

Seeing what she was about to do, Kurt put a warning hand on her arm. "Restrain yourself," he cautioned her.

She forced herself to look casual. "I'm fine."

"We need to go anyway, it's getting late," he said, trying to distract her. "I wants to get my Downton Abbey on."

Santana gave him a skeptical, mildly pitying look.

"I can't pull that off, can I?" he asked, self-conscious.

"You _really _can't," she assured him.

"Well, we'll let you get back to your picnic," Rachel said. "We just had to share the good news. We'll see you guys at home."

Santana raised her fingers in a brief wave as the two of them took off down the path, arm in arm. But before they'd made it too far, predictably, Rachel broke away and headed after the carriage driver to give him a piece of her mind. "_Rachel_," Kurt hissed, having no choice but to chase her. "Rachel!"

Shaking her head as she turned away from their slapstick spectacle, Santana watched Brittany as she sank back onto the blanket, processing the news she'd just received.

"This is just... wow," she said to herself, her gaze turned inward.

"See, what did I tell you?" Santana insisted. "You _were _the star of the show."

With an effort, Brittany brought herself back to her surroundings. She gave Santana a searching look. "Do you think I should do that audition?"

"Well, _yeah_. I mean... why not?" She tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. If Brittany was at NYADA, it would solve so many of her problems. Or maybe not problems, so much as fears. "And hey, you'd finally have a place to make tons of friends, like you were talking about before. Of course, they're all freaks of nature, but you don't care about that."

Brittany smiled, but there a tinge of reserve in it, or possibly worry. She took a deep breath. "I guess I'll do it, then."

Gazing at her, Santana suddenly looked down fast, as if battling emotion, or at least trying to hide it. "I'm so proud of you," she said, just above a whisper. "And, okay, maybe just the _tiniest _bit jealous. The way things are going, you'll probably have a stage career before I even get another job."

Brittany laughed a little. They both seemed to have agreed to pretend that the earlier conversation had never taken the darker turn that it had. For once, Kurt and Rachel's uninvited interruption had proved to be a blessing in disguise.

Santana picked up the still mostly-full champagne bottle. "Let's finish this." She poured fresh glasses for each of them, then raised hers in a toast. "To my insanely talented girlfriend."

Smiling, Brittany raised her own glass. "And mine too."

They drank.

* * *

><p>For the rest of the afternoon and evening they were very careful to edge around any mention of the words that had nearly soured their perfect day at the park. Exhausted after the long hours spent out in the open air, they went to bed early, knowing that tomorrow, there was no putting off the real world any longer. So Santana was more than a little concerned when she woke up in the middle of the night to find that the spot next to her in the bed was empty. She reached over to feel it by instinct, checking to see whether it was still warm or not. It wasn't.<p>

She got out of bed and went searching, worried that Brittany had had some kind of relapse and was sick again. But the bathroom was empty. So she continued on into the living room. Relieved, she saw that she was on the couch, watching TV. Or no, not TV. The glow wasn't bright enough for that, and it was coming from a source closer to her. It was her laptop, propped open on the coffee table.

"Hey." She approached as Brittany looked up at her. "What are you doing? It's like three in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep," she explained. "I thought it was because I had to pee, but then after I did, I still didn't feel like going back to bed."

Santana came nearer to settle next to her on the couch, turning her attention to the laptop screen. For a minute she stared at it in astonishment. "Britt, is this what I think it is?"

Brittany only grinned in reply.

"Oh my God, is this _Pioneer Chat_?" Santana couldn't repress her delight. "I forgot all about this."

"Last fall when you were gone, I put some of our old stuff onto my laptop, so I could watch it at school when I felt lonely," Brittany confessed. "Including all five episodes of Pioneer Chat. Plus the Fourth of July special."

"This show was like the Fondue for Two prototype," Santana recalled fondly. "And I seem to remember that _I_ was always your guinea pig."

"Well, who else would do everything I told them to?" She nudged her. "Even my little sister wouldn't wear some of those outfits."

Santana shook her head wearily, acknowledging this truth. "I was whipped from day one."

On the laptop screen, the picture was shaky and out of focus. But then it seemed to settle on one spot, a pair of lawn chairs in a middle-class backyard. A thirteen-year-old Brittany appeared in the frame; tall, a bit gawky, wearing braces, but with an exuberance that overshadowed everything else, even the fact that she was dressed in a long, floral-printed calico dress with an apron.

"Hi, I'm Brittany S. Pierce, and welcome to this week's episode of Pioneer Chat, the show that takes you back in time to a land where cowboys and Indians fought each over the right to be NFL mascots, and where if you felt a funny burning down there, it was probably syphilis." She glanced off screen for a second, then went on. "I'm pleased to announce we have a very special guest with us today, so why don't we go ahead and bring her out? Fresh from her adventure of saving the Lewis and Clark expedition even _without _the benefit of affordable child care, please welcome my good friend... Sacajawea."

She waited, then made a gesturing motion with her hand, then hissed, "_Santana_." But still no one appeared.

"Just a minute." She smiled at the camera, then disappeared briefly. There were sounds of a whispered argument in the background, then Brittany returned, dragging the miserable and reluctant thirteen-year-old Santana by the hand. She was dressed like a stereotypical Indian maiden, in a fringed deer-skin tunic and matching leggings, with beaded moccasins on her feet. Her hair hung in two dark braids, and there were feathers above her left ear.

"Brittany, it doesn't fit," she complained. "The dress is too tight."

"Well, you didn't have boobs yet when I started making it in Home Ec last semester. They just came out of nowhere."

"I know." Santana stared down at them, pleased but also a bit doubtful. "I think one of them might be bigger than the other one," she confided.

"Really?" Brittany's interest was piqued. "Can I see it?"

"_No_!" Then she cast a suspicious look at the camera, before she looked away again, muttering after a few seconds, "Maybe later."

The two of them now sat down in the lawn chairs, and Brittany turned to the side a bit, facing her guest. "Okay so, Sacajawea, would you like to tell the viewers at home what you learned from your awesome expedition into the wilderness?"

Santana rolled her eyes a little. "The most important thing I learned is that men are stupid and useless, and you should never travel with them. Oh, and try not to get knocked up at fourteen."

Brittany shook her head slightly, then whispered, "That's not the line." But since it didn't appear that Santana was going to become more cooperative, she smiled at the camera again. "Let's move on to the quiz portion of the show." She took a sheaf of index cards out of her apron pocket, reading the one on top. "Question one. Which animal would be the most fun to shoot from a stagecoach window; a buffalo, or a bison? Sacajawea?"

"I don't know." Santana sighed, clearly bored. "A bison?"

"It was a trick question, they're the same thing. Your ancestors would be ashamed of you."

"My ancestors were from Puerto Rico! There's no buffalo there." Uncertainly, she added, "At least I don't think there are."

Undaunted by Santana's attitude, Brittany now dragged a plastic storage container over toward them, saying with enthusiasm. "Okay, now is the portion of the show where we make dolls out of cornhusks. And then, we'll have a funeral for them when they all die of yellow fever and dysentery."

"Brittany, can't we just go swimming? It's really hot."

On the couch in New York, Santana couldn't help feeling vaguely annoyed at her preteen self. Smiling, she turned to look at Brittany. "Sorry about that," she said.

"It's okay." She now seemed a bit distant, though, like something was on her mind.

Santana looked at her closer, at her wistful features illuminated in the glow of the computer screen. The room beyond the circle of light was black, which trapped them inside it and gave it an isolating quality, causing Santana to shiver a little. "Is everything all right, Britt? What made you want to watch this in the middle of the night, anyway?"

"I don't know," she said softly, not looking away from the laptop, where the two younger versions of themselves were now busy making cornhusk dolls. In a musing tone, she asked, "Do you ever think that you can know your whole life what you want to do, but you don't _know _that you know it? Until something happens and then all of a sudden you realize... even though it may be too late?"

Puzzled, Santana tried to make sense of this. She thought she caught a glimmer of what she must be referring to, but she wasn't sure. "You mean, like, dancing?"

Brittany waited a second before responding. But she seemed somehow disappointed. "Yeah. I guess so."

"If you're worried about that audition, you shouldn't be. You're gonna do amazing. There's no doubt in my mind."

She finally looked over at her, appreciative. "Thank you."

They turned their attention back to the screen, where the dolls had now been completed and then honored with a proper burial. The setting had changed from the backyard to a rural area, a wooded creek bank, probably the one a few blocks from Brittany's house. On the ground near the water was a pile of firewood.

Brittany was addressing the camera again. "Today Sacajawea and I are going to demonstrate to you at home how to light a fire using only sticks. That way, if you're ever trapped in a mountain pass during a blizzard, you can cook your friends and neighbors before you eat them."

She gestured Santana over to the pile. Still looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world, Santana nevertheless squatted down obediently and began swiveling one of the sticks between her palms, trying to ignite a piece of wood with the friction.

Watching from the couch, Santana couldn't help laughing at her irritated image on the screen. "I remember you tried to get Mr. Boyd to let us do this in history class in 7th grade."

"Yeah... they made me talk to the guidance counselor after that. They thought I was a pyromaniac."

"Morons," she said with scorn. Had anybody even been paying attention to the fact that Brittany actually _liked _learning, if only she could do it in her own way, and not the way the teachers insisted on? What kind of difference might it have made to her school career if someone had taken all that passion and curiosity and tried to make use of it? If someone had even bothered to try to figure out how her mind worked? Santana felt a little bit to blame, herself, but she knew there was only so much another kid could be expected to notice. It was the adults who were at fault. She wanted to go back in time and give them all an epic Lima Heights rant.

"You always had the most creative ideas," she told her, realizing how true it was.

Brittany seemed skeptical. "That's one word for them."

"It's the _right _word," she insisted firmly.

Now Brittany leaned over against her, settling into her lap and resting her head there. Santana stroked her hair as they watched the remainder of the video.

Increasingly frustrated by the fire that refused to light, thirteen-year-old Santana exclaimed, "Brittany, I can't do this anymore, my hands are starting to bleed!" They weren't, of course.

"Okay, well, let me find a better stick. Maybe that one was damp."

When her back was turned, Santana pulled a box of matches out of a backpack lying nearby on the ground, swiftly lighting the gathered leaves underneath the woodpile. By the time Brittany returned, the flame had caught and was crackling, spreading to the rest of the pile. Santana concealed the matches in her deerskin leggings, just in time.

"You did it!" Brittany said proudly. "See, I knew it would work." She pulled her to feet and swooped her around. Finally coming out of her petulant shell, Santana giggled and squealed a little, gazing at Brittany with unadorned affection. Then she remembered the camera and became self-conscious again, stepping away to put some distance between them as she smoothed the tunic down.

Now Brittany faced the screen again, delivering her closing words. "Well, that's all for today's episode. Join us next time on Pioneer Chat, when we'll be attempting to ford a raging river in a covered wagon filled with children. I'm still working on getting the necessary permits." She gave one final parting smile. Then, since there was no one else to do it, she disappeared from the picture, and the camera was lifted, the image going wobbly.

But before the power could be turned off, Santana appeared in the frame again. She was facing in the opposite direction, standing on the edge of the bluff that overlooked the creek, her silhouette backlit against the rosy sunset. Brittany lowered the angle back down again, so that she was filming her almost as if from below. Zooming in now on her profile and shoulder, the picture revealed the breeze lifting a few tendrils of her hair that had come loose from the braid. A ray of the sinking sun caught in one of the hoops of the feathered earrings she wore, refracting and shimmering off the edge of it. Unaware that she was being filmed, her expression was serene and thoughtful.

But eventually, she noticed that Brittany had been silent for a while, so she turned to see what was taking so long.

"Is it off yet?"

"Just a second. Stay right there, don't move."

"What?" She looked confused. "Why?"

Brittany waited a minute before answering, getting in a few more seconds of footage. "You look really pretty."

Now Santana rolled her eyes, pleased but embarrassed. "That is so gay."

"So?"

Impatient, she sighed. "If you turn it off, I'll show you my boob. The big one."

There was a brief hesitation, then the screen went blank.

Now, on the laptop, Brittany's background wallpaper appeared, a photoshopped image of Lord Tubbington on a jet ski. (At least Santana _assumed _it was photoshopped. With that cat, you never knew.)

She stretched a bit, realizing she'd been more absorbed in the video than she'd thought. Amused, she said, "I can't remember if I showed you the boob or not, can you?" She waited a second, but there was no response. "Brittany?"

She seemed to have fallen asleep. Santana gazed down at her, still stroking her hair. She had the sudden disturbing feeling, or rather premonition, that there was something going on with her, something that wasn't just going to go away on its own. She'd seen little glimpses of it lately, but as was usual when something unnerved her, she'd been trying to ignore it. _Something _was bothering Brittany, though, that much was clear. Something was on her mind. It wasn't just homesickness, though that was obviously part of it. But _what_?

Maybe she should wake her up right now, and they should get it all out in the open, whatever it was - right here, in the middle of the night. Say everything they'd been holding back for too long, deal with all the insecurities, or whatever the hell it was that seemed to be coloring, just slightly, just a tinge, so many of their interactions lately. She paused, her fingers twined around Brittany's hair, and almost did it. She almost woke her up. But in the end, she couldn't. Because that was the thing about fears. Once they were spoken, once they were out there, you couldn't put them back. And the truth could change everything.

So instead, she reached out, careful not to move too abruptly or wake her up, and lowered the lid of the laptop, cloaking the room in darkness.

She bent her head forward, pressing her lips into Brittany's hair as she breathed, "I love you so much." Then she settled into the couch, content to spend the rest of the night there.

* * *

><p>Friday afternoon, finally. The last three days of the week, after so much downtime, had seemed to stretch out forever. But now it was officially weekend, for all of them. No more dogwalking or classes for two glorious, hopefully puke-free, days.<p>

Brittany sat at the kitchen table, slouched down a bit in her chair, her bare feet propped on the seat of the chair across from hers. Her application materials for NYADA were spread out on the table in front of her. She was supposed to be filling them out, but instead, at the moment, she was focused on the dilemma of the Rubik's cube which she'd stolen from the backstage green room the previous week. She was no closer to solving it than she had been then.

Kurt came into the room to get a bottle of water from the fridge and noticed what she was doing. "_Really_, Brittany?" he asked, doubtful but sympathetic.

She sighed. "I know." She laid it on the table, deciding to take a break.

"Actually, that reminds me," he said. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."

But before she could reply, two argumentative voices drifted toward them from the hallway.

"Forget it!" Santana was saying. "I'm not going out with you dressed like that. You look like an Old Navy commercial!"

They came into the kitchen, just in time for Rachel to reply. "I don't have time to change, we're already late! And how do you think I feel? You look like the Kardashians' barrio stepsister!"

Santana crossed her arms in grudging respect for this insult. "Did you just now come up with that?"

"No," Rachel admitted, sheepish. "I thought of it two weeks ago. I've been waiting for the right chance to use it."

"I thought so." Santana circled the table and wrapped her arms around Brittany from behind. "I guess we're off," she said with regret, acting as though she didn't want to leave. But she wasn't fooling anyone; it was obvious that she was looking forward to the chance to sing.

The two of them were headed to a wedding reception in ritzy Westchester County, where Santana had been booked, with Rachel's influence, as the official entertainment. Once she'd received the belated news about Santana's job loss, she'd seemed to want to make up for lost time, practically assigning herself the role of talent agent. To everyone's surprise, this job had come along almost immediately. For two hours of singing, give or take, Santana would earn as much as she earned in a month at the club. It was too much money to pass up.

"I still don't understand why I can't go," Brittany said.

"Brittany, it's somebody's wedding, you can't just tag along. It's rude," Rachel explained to her, in a tone that indicated it wasn't the first time she'd said it. "Don't worry, I'll look after her for you."

Brittany managed to give her a strained, somewhat ironic smile. "Why do _you _get to go?"

"Because they're friends of my parents, and I was invited. Haven't we been over this?"

"I'll try to steal some of those little pastel mints for you, okay?" Santana promised.

"Okay," she said, giving her a sincere smile. "You look hot, by the way." She tilted her head backwards for an upside down kiss.

"None for me?" Kurt asked.

Obligingly, Santana and Rachel circled around the table and delivered simultaneous smooches to each side of his face. He cringed. "When will I learn that joking about it makes it happen?" Grabbing a napkin from the basket on the table, he went to work wiping the lipstick off.

"Bye," Brittany said, as they headed out. "Have fun."

From the front entryway, their voices drifted back into the kitchen again. "You're taking an _umbrella_? What are you, ninety? It's not even cloudy out."

"Oh, okay, good, I guess that means that if it rains, you won't be expecting to share it."

Finally, the door closed, and the apartment fell silent.

Brittany picked up her Rubik's cube again, already bored, but then noticed that Kurt seemed to be enjoying some kind of private amusement. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing." But of course he couldn't resist sharing. "It's just that Santana is going to lose it when she finds out precisely what this gig entails."

"What do you mean?" Brittany looked concerned. "I thought she was just the wedding singer."

"Oh, she is. But it's a gay wedding. Two men."

Brittany shrugged. "And?"

"And... _apparently_, they want her to pretend to be a drag queen." He paused, enjoying this too much. "A Cuban drag queen, named Tess Tosterone. With a Carmen Miranda fruit hat."

At this bit of information, Brittany raised her eyebrows and then after a second pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Exactly," Kurt said. "Rachel's not planning to tell her until they're on the train. That way she can't escape."

"Oh my God." Brittany couldn't seem to help finding the idea hilarious, in spite of herself.

In agreement, Kurt mused, "To be a fly on the wall when that little detail is revealed."

She laughed, picturing it. Then she couldn't help adding, "I never understood that expression, though. Like, why would anybody want to be a fly? If you're gonna be lurking around on the wall, you might as well be something fun, like a monkey. Or a ninja. Or a ninja monkey." Her words trailed off and her gaze became faraway as she contemplated the potential awesomeness that a ninja monkey would present to the world.

"Brittany?" Kurt snapped his fingers.

"Sorry," she said, forcing herself back to reality. "What did you want to talk about, anyway?"

To get them started, he began in a roundabout way. "Here's a question for you. What would you say you're most afraid of?"

"_Me_? Um... gosh, that's a tough one." She reflected for a minute. "I guess it would probably be those automatic-flush toilets in public bathrooms. Because it's like... how do they _know _when you're done? Is there some tiny man in there whose job it is to keep track of everything that comes out? And if so, how come sometimes he flushes it right when you're in the middle of going? Is that his idea of a joke?" In a confiding tone, she told Kurt, "Sometimes, I just pee a little in each stall, to try to trick him. It takes a lot longer, but I think it's worth it. And don't even get me started on the sinks that know when your hands are there."

She paused. "So, yeah, I guess that's what I'm most afraid of. Either that, or... you know, dying alone because Santana realizes that she can do better than me, and she falls in love with someone who's smarter and more talented and more driven and who never wants to leave New York, and I spend my whole life trying to find another person who understands me the way she does. Which is impossible, because _nobody _could ever understand me the way she does." She finished up and stared at the table for a second. "That, or the toilets. It's too close to call. Why, what are you most afraid of?"

Kurt continued to look at her for a long drawn-out moment, baffled into silence. Finally, he forced himself to speak. "Suddenly it doesn't seem that important."

"Well, then... this was a really weird subject for you to bring up, Kurt," she told him casually, preparing to stand up from the table.

"Wait." He held up his hand to stop her. Trying to collect the thoughts that had been scattered during her unexpected confession, he began again. "Why don't we try this again. I guess I just wanted to ask for some advice, if you don't mind."

She settled into her chair again, surprised. "You want advice from _me_?"

"Well, you and I do have a history of helping each other out." He thought for a second, then in the interest of truthfulness, revised this to, "All right, technically, _you _have a history of helping _me _out."

"That's true," she acknowledged. "Okay, lay it on me."

He laid his palms flat on the table, looking nervous. "What would you say if I told you that I'm seriously considering not returning to NYADA next year?"

Her eyes widened a little, but she seemed more thoughtful than surprised. "I'd say... _why_? I mean, you worked so hard to get in there. I thought it was like your dream."

"It was. But... I think I'm starting to realize that dreams can change. Lately I feel more at home when I'm behind the scenes, or working on my own projects... sometimes I'm even resentful when I have to spend time in class. It just doesn't feel _right _there, anymore. Not to mention that there's so much competition, for every little thing. You have no idea how cutthroat it is, Brittany. Oh sure, everyone's ready to burst into song at the drop of a hat, and there's no shortage of people who can understand even my most obscure Judy Garland references, which is always nice. But when it comes to fighting for roles, it's like a dogfighting ring. Kill or be killed."

At this, Brittany stared down morosely at her application materials. Kurt didn't seem to notice.

Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he added, "And by the way, don't mention any of this to Rachel. I haven't told her yet. That's a conversation I'm _not _looking forward to."

"_Rachel_," Brittany repeated with distaste. "I'm so sick of everything being about her. You know, sometimes I think we would all be better off if we just pretended she didn't exist."

Kurt was a bit taken aback by this.

"No, hear me out," she went on. "We all just start ignoring everything she says, and we put bottles of pills all over the apartment, so she'll think that all along she was just a figment of our imaginations, and now that we're taking the right medication, we can't see her anymore."

"Brittany Susan Pierce, that is completely cruel and twisted. And I have to admit, it does sound like a lot of fun."

She gave him an innocent shrug. "Just something to keep in mind, that's all I'm saying."

"_Anyway_." He sighed. "What I'm trying to say is, I think I'm a decent performer. But I don't want something that I love to be ruined by the stress of constantly fighting for scraps and, most of the time, not getting them. _That's_ what I'm most afraid of. And I want to do something that I can be great at, not just _decent_. Even if I'm not sure what that is yet."

Brittany smiled at him. "Then I think that's really brave."

"Really? You're not just saying that because I'm your unicorn?"

"Nope," she shook her head. "That's why I'm telling you the truth." She went on, contemplative. "Yeah, cuz... you shouldn't do something that doesn't feel right, just because it's what everyone else expects you to do. Even if it _is _something you're good at." Then she paused, hearing these words out loud, as if listening to them for the first time, herself.

"Thank you," he said, not noticing her distraction. "I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else."

She gave him a friendly nod of acknowledgement.

"Well," Kurt said, changing the subject. "Since you've helped me with my little dilemma, I was thinking that I could... reciprocate now."

She thought about this, giving him a strange look. "Don't you need to be alone for that? I mean, I don't _mind_, but- "

"What?" He was alarmed. "_No_, no, Brittany. To reciprocate means..." He shook his head. "Never mind. I was just curious about what you said earlier, about Santana." He gave her a concerned look. "Did you really mean all that? Are you honestly worried that she might fall for someone else?"

Brittany waited a beat before replying. It looked as though she was debating with herself about what to reveal. After a minute, she said with deliberate casualness, "Nah, I was just kidding. You know you can't take everything I say seriously."

He waited, not entirely believing it, but not knowing how much to press her. "Well, good," he said slowly. "Because you have to know that's _insane_. I've never seen anyone so head over heels for another person."

She smiled a little, grateful. "Thanks."

He stood, preparing to head back into the living room. "If you ever do feel like talking about it, though... or _anything _for that matter, you know where to find me."

"Kurt?" she said, stopping him before he left the room. She stared down at the application on the table, and then seemed to make up her mind. "Actually, there _is _something I want to talk to you about."

Intrigued, he sat down again, waiting.

* * *

><p>Monday afternoon, Santana and Brittany were walking close beside each other down the busy sidewalk of 60th Street, heading toward the main NYADA classroom building.<p>

"It's still frizzy, isn't it?" Santana asked. "Just tell me the truth."

"Santana, it's _not_." Brittany pulled her hand away from her hair. "Stop messing with it."

Santana reluctantly restrained herself from raising her hand to her head again. She was still convinced her hair had been damaged by the five stubborn minutes she'd delayed before agreeing to share Rachel's umbrella during the freak downpour on the way home Friday night.

They'd reached the front entrance. "Okay, well, here we are," she said with anticipation in her voice, holding the door open for Brittany.

Brittany ducked inside, looking nervous. The door closed behind them, the sounds from the street suddenly cut off in the dim, cavernous hush of the front foyer. Classes were over for the day, but even so, there was faint music to be heard coming from various rehearsal studios.

"Um, I'm supposed to go to the Greenberg room?" Brittany said uncertainly, looking around.

"Oh, I know where that is, it's upstairs. It's a smaller theater. Perfect for auditions."

Santana led the way, taking Brittany's hand as they reached the top of the stairwell. When they'd found the miniature theater and entered through the backstage door, she checked her watch. "We're a little early. Are you just supposed to wait here?"

Brittany was looking around, distracted. "What?" she asked. "Oh, yeah. Probably."

Santana made sure they were alone, then said, "Okay, so, if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll never speak to you again. But I have a good luck charm for you." She pulled out her compact mirror and opened it up, extracting from it what looked like a tiny, fragile green leaf. "It's a real four-leaf clover," she explained. "I saw it in a flower bed on my way to class this morning. And even though I'm not down with this superstitious stuff, I know _you _are. So... here." She held it out.

But Brittany just stared at the clover, looking guilty. She started to say something, then stopped.

"What?" Santana asked, awkward now. "This is too corny, even for you, isn't it." Humiliated, she started to put the clover away. "_God_, I should have known it would be..."

"No, it's not," Brittany protested, stopping her. "It's so, _so _sweet." She paused, then forced herself to go on. "And you're gonna be so mad at me. But try not to be, okay? Because I've been thinking a lot about this, and I know it's the right thing."

"What are you talking about? Why would I be mad?"

"Okay, here's the thing." Brittany took a deep breath and let it out before she continued. "We didn't come here today for me to audition for NYADA."

"What?" Santana looked at her like she was crazy. "Of course we did."

"No." She shook her head. "We came here... for _you _to audition for NYADA." She cringed a little, waiting for the response.

"Brittany." Santana looked like someone trying to understand a foreign language. "That doesn't make any sense. They don't want _me_."

"They do, though. Kurt helped me put together a reel of you performing. We used some stuff from high school, and some from your job at the club. Oh, and this one clip I'd never seen before from the fall, where you were belting _Out Tonight _from Rent up on the fire escape. I think you must have been super drunk, but it was still fierce."

It took a second for her to call up the memory. "Oh my God, they were _filming _that?"

"Well, it's a good thing they were, because apparently it impressed the faculty here. They said they'd love to see you. And you can fill out the rest of the application stuff later."

"But... this doesn't make any sense, though." She was still bewildered. "This whole thing was about _you_. You were amazing the other night. They asked for you."

"I know." She looked down and sighed. "It's hard to explain." But then, when Santana still seemed to be waiting for some attempt at an explanation, she continued. "I _love _dancing, I do. I hope I can do it until the day I die. Maybe I'll drop dead in the middle of crunking or something." She paused, trying to think of the right words. "But... the thing is, it doesn't matter to me if I'm dancing in front of people, or if I'm completely alone, in my bedroom, in my underwear. I don't care if people are watching. I just do it because I love it. But you..." she stepped closer, to emphasize her words. "Santana, you're a _performer_. I've seen how you work an audience. You just come alive when you're on stage, it's like watching magic." She corrected herself. "It's not _like _magic, it _is _magic."

"Okay, yeah," Santana admitted. "I like an audience. I like people watching me. But seriously, _NYADA_?" She gestured around the room, then lowered her voice. "This place is ridiculous."

"I know you make fun of it all the time, but you know you love it here," Brittany persisted. "You know where everything is, you know all the people... Kurt said that before I came to New York, you hung around here more than some of the students did."

Embarrassed, she shifted her gaze away, muttering, "I was lonely."

"Yeah, but... there's a reason it keeps drawing you back. Some people are just meant to be up there, on stage, under the lights. You miss it," Brittany said coaxingly. "I know you do."

"But I already have a school."

"I know, and if you still want to take those classes, you could do it at night, or in the summer. You don't have to choose."

It was obvious that Santana was tempted. But then she called herself back to her senses, "Brittany, _no_," she said, still baffled by this unexpected offer. "I can't let you do this. I won't let you give this up for me. It's too much."

"I'm not giving anything up." Her tone was firm. "I thought about it, and I just, I don't want to go to school here. I don't." She shrugged. "It wouldn't be just dancing. It's singing, and acting, and... being around Rachel every day. And there's so much competition. You know I hate it when people are mad at me. It's just not the right place for me."

Santana continued to stare at her, searchingly, trying to detect any crack in the armor. "Are you _sure _about this?"

"I'm sure," she nodded. "It was so cool to be asked, but it's not the right fit. But..." she added, with a slight air of mystery. "I'm starting to figure out some other things that might be."

"Yeah?" Santana asked, interested.

Before Brittany could elaborate on this, though, a man poked his head around from the front, wearing a scarf that even Kurt would probably consider too gay. "Santana Lopez?" he said, checking his clipboard. "We're ready for you."

"She'll be right out," Brittany said.

The man disappeared, but Santana still didn't seem convinced.

"Look, it's up to you," Brittany said. "I mean, maybe being a wedding singer is enough to satisfy you. I hear that your Tess Tosterone persona was a big hit."

She closed her eyes for a second, embarrassed, but as if she'd known this news would leak. "I will _kill _her."

Brittany smiled, unable to help the amusement. "I just want you to know, I totally understand if you don't want to do this. I'll support you no matter what."

Santana sighed, staring at the closed curtain that divided the backstage area from the theater. In a quiet voice, she finally admitted, "I _do _want to."

Brittany smiled, vindicated. "I know."

Then a shadow of doubt passed over her features. "But I don't have anything prepared."

"I should have given you more warning, I know, but I was afraid you wouldn't come." Trying to instill confidence, she said, "Come on, you're a pro. Just pretend you're at work. Or maybe you could show 'em how Anita's _really _supposed to be done," she suggested.

A sly smile played around Santana's lips as she contemplated how potentially satisfying that could be. Eventually, she looked back up at Brittany. Just above a whisper, she told her, "I don't deserve you."

"Yeah, that's probably true," she said jokingly.

They laughed and pressed together for one of those smiling, wrinkled-nose kisses. But it had to be quick. "You'd better get out there," Brittany murmured to her.

She turned, but then looked back at her to add. "I'm gonna make this up to you."

Brittany smiled after her. "Go knock 'em dead."

Santana neared the curtain, then stopped just behind it. She drew in a deep, calming breath, gathering herself together, reminding herself that she was a star. This was it. This was her shot. This moment could change her entire life. Then she pushed the curtain aside and stepped out onto the stage.

* * *

><p>"Come on down!" The words were coming from the living room, shrill and insistent. "Come on down!"<p>

Brittany closed the front door behind her, dropping her shoulder bag in the entrance hall, and poked her head around the doorway.

"Hey, Monty," she said to the parrot, who was perched on top of the flat screen television.

"Come on down!" he repeated to her in welcome.

She came closer. "I see you've been watching The Price is Right again."

As if to elaborate on this, he did a pitch-perfect imitation of the game show's signature wheel spinning and then slowing down.

"Wow, that's _very _impressive," Brittany told him, flopping onto the couch. But her enthusiasm seemed to be forced. Worried that he would be offended, she said, "I'm sorry if it seems like I'm in a bad mood. It's not you. Some lady on the street just told me to go F myself again. And all I did was ask if she was related to Aunt Jemima, the pancake lady, because she looked just like her. But I guess she didn't want to talk about it."

Monty bent forward and pecked the surface of the television, which was tuned to an afternoon soap opera. "Playtex Gentle Glide. So comfortable you can't even feel them," he intoned.

She looked at him askance. "Are you trying to say that because it's that time of the month, I'm being sensitive and irrational? Because I find that really condescending, Monty. I would expect better from you."

He cocked his head at her, chastened.

"And besides, that's not the real reason I'm upset." She sighed, glancing around to make sure they were alone. "I had lunch with Millie today. I know Santana didn't want me to, but I'd already made plans, and I can't just cancel on somebody, it's not right." She paused, looking gloomy. "But I sort of wish I had, because..." She looked up at the bird. "Do you remember all that stuff I was telling you before, about how I thought something weird was going on with her and Rachel? Well, it turns out I was right. Back before you and me got here? Something did happen. It's the reason Santana started dating Millie in the first place, because it freaked her out so much."

At this news, Monty made a disturbingly realistic vomiting sound, picked up from the weekend when they were all sick.

"Yeah, I know," Brittany agreed. "That's pretty much how I feel when I think about it. I just don't understand why she didn't tell me. We tell each other everything. But it _must _have happened. Because I mean, why would Millie lie? I think she really likes me." She sighed again.

"Mike's Hard Lemonade," the parrot said. "Always different, always refreshing."

"That sounds good, but I think it's too early to drink," she said, sounding glum. "I hope _you _haven't had any. You shouldn't drink and fly. Just in case, why don't you go back in your cage."

She got up and let him climb onto her hand, then walked him over to the cage, closing the metal door after him. He regarded her from his perch, like a therapist waiting for the patient to continue.

Brittany moved to the side of the cage and stared out the window. "I know I shouldn't be stressing out about this," she said. "It was a long time ago, and it probably didn't mean anything. But it's just... once something like that happens, you never know when it could happen again. That's how it works with people," she clarified, turning back to the bird. In a defeated tone, she added, "And if there's one thing I know about Rachel Berry, it's that if she wants something, she won't stop until she gets it."

Returning to an old favorite at the mention of this name, Monty said, "The Tony Award goes to Miss Rachel Berry."

"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean." She leaned her forehead against the narrowly spaced bars of the cage, heedless of the indentations they would make against her skin. "Anyway. I think I'm gonna go back to Lima with Mr. Bloom. I know Santana doesn't want me to, but I just feel like I could use a little break from this place. And then if I come back..." she stopped, looking guilty. "I mean, _when _I come back, I'll be able to look at everything with a clearer head. Sometimes you just need some distance, you know?"

Out of nowhere, the parrot began singing the Meow Mix cat food jingle. "Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow..."

"Aww, that's so sweet, you're trying to cheer me up," Brittany said, smiling a little. "You're looking forward to meeting Lord Tubbington, aren't you? I think you guys are gonna be best friends. And in the worst case scenario that he tries to eat you? Just offer him some drug money. I think he'll listen to reason."

Suddenly, a short squeal and then a loud female laugh came from the direction of the bedrooms. Brittany turned, confused, then looked back at Monty again. "Wait, are they _home_? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Uh-oh," he said, clenching and unclenching his talons around his perch. "Uh-oh. Uh-oh."

"_What_?" She looked worried. "What's that supposed to mean? Are you trying to tell me something?"

But no more information proved to be forthcoming from the bird, so with an air of reluctance, she headed toward the hallway to investigate.

Another laugh rang out as she neared Rachel's bedroom door, which was closed. From behind it now came two distinct voices. The first was Santana's. "Have you ever even used one of these before?"

Then Rachel's awed reply. "Not one that big or fancy. How much did that cost?"

"I don't know, this one is Brittany's, actually."

From behind the door, Brittany's eyes widened slightly in alarm.

"I don't know about this." Rachel now sounded uncertain. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Do you even have to ask?" She waited, then sounded impatient. "Look, I thought you said you wanted to experiment."

"I do, but..."

"Then you're gonna have to move your fingers!"

Bewildered now, and heedless of the consequences, Brittany grasped the handle and pushed the door open... only to find Rachel seated in front of her vanity mirror, both hands protectively wrapped around her pinned hair, while Santana stood behind her with an upraised curling iron. Brittany's own curling iron, to be precise.

Startled by the sudden intrusion, Santana put one hand to her chest. "God, Britt... you shouldn't sneak up on someone with a rod of scorching metal in her hand."

Oblivious to any kind of problem, Rachel turned to showcase the small portion of her hair that was already done. "Brittany, what do you think? Is this too extreme? Does it make me look sexy?"

Santana forcibly shoved her down into the chair and turned her back around. "Okay, first of all, Gidget? I'm not finished. And second of all, I didn't promise any miracles up in here. There's only so much I can do."

Brittany stood there watching them for a second, perplexed. "What's going on? Did they reschedule the musical?"

"Oh, no, this isn't for Maria," Rachel explained. "It's just for me. I've decided that I need to try make my personal style more sophisticated and alluring. _Without _wigs," she added.

"Great," Brittany said, her tone ironic.

"Maybe you could help me with accessorizing, Brittany?" Rachel offered. "You have such a unique sense of style. I really admire it."

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know, I'm pretty busy lately."

"Oh." She tried not to sound hurt. "That's okay, I understand."

"Oh, that reminds me," Santana said. "I've got something for you." She laid the curling iron down on the vanity, instructing Rachel, "Don't touch that. I'll be right back."

Rachel reached toward it tentatively. "Maybe I could just -"

"_Don't_. _touch_. _it_," Santana repeated.

She sighed. "Fine."

Santana took Brittany's hand and led her across the hall into their own room, closing the door behind them. She looked excited about something. In general, she'd been in a pretty good mood for the last few days. Her NYADA audition had gone amazingly well, and even though she wouldn't know anything for certain for a few weeks, she had a good feeling about it.

Brittany hung back a little, observing her as she dug through her backpack. When Santana had found what she was looking for, she straightened up and came back toward her. But before she could reveal what she had, a shadow flickered across her face as she studied Brittany's expression.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "You look sort of... I don't know. Sad, or something."

"It's just been a long day," Brittany said. "I'm tired, that's all." She smiled at her to prove it.

Relieved, Santana said, "Well, maybe this'll cheer you up." She took a deep breath, just the slightest bit nervous, and then after a brief hesitation passed over the pile of papers she'd taken from her backpack.

Brittany took them and turned them around, studying the embossed seal at the top of the first page. Out loud, she read, "Maurice Kanbar Institute of Film and Television." She looked up at Santana, startled. "What is this?"

"It's an application, and a course catalogue. For film school, Britt," she said gently. "It's an undergrad program at Tisch. It's for people who want to make movies, like you do."

Brittany looked down again at the materials, bewildered. "I don't understand. You actually think _I _could get into something like this?"

"Yeah, I think you can." She stepped closer. "I _know _you can. I mean, it'll take some preparation. You have to have a whole portfolio and everything. But I can help you with that. And Kurt and Rachel will too, I know they will."

She waited a minute, giving Brittany time to process the news. Then she continued. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said, about dancing. And I think you're right. You're an incredible dancer, Brittany. Probably the best I've ever seen. You make everybody next to you look like they're auditioning for _Yo Gabba Gabba_."

Brittany couldn't help smiling. "I love that show," she said.

"Yeah, well... even so. You blow everyone else out of the water. But I think you should be doing something where you can use that wonderful, creative, offbeat _mind _of yours. Because I want people other than me to be able to see how brilliant you are."

A faint blush of pleasure touched her cheeks. "What made you think of film school?"

Santana considered for a second before she answered. "I've been trying to pay more attention to things lately. Like the reason you were watching that video the other night. It was because you were afraid you wouldn't get to do stuff like that anymore if you took that audition, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Brittany said, as if only now realizing it herself. "I guess it was."

"I don't think I've been a very good girlfriend."

"Santana- " she started to protest.

"No, it's okay," she stopped her. "I _haven't_ been. I've screwed up a lot of things. But I'm trying to do better. I want to help you do whatever it is you want to do. And..." she leaned forward and touched the application. "I think maybe this is what you want to do."

Brittany pressed her lips together, contemplative. "I think it is too," she after a minute, nodding. "Thank you," she whispered.

Santana looked at her more closely. "Brittany, are you crying?"

"No," she said, while wiping a tear away. "I just..." She stopped. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Touched by this, but also a little concerned, Santana moved in closer to pull her into her arms. "Then let's never find out," she said against her ear. They held each other tight, arms wrapped around each other, pressed as close as they could possibly get, both with their eyes squeezed shut.

Eventually, a voice broke into the stillness from outside the closed door. "Oh no. Oh no. Santana!"

Apologetic, Santana pulled away with a weary sigh. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "She touched the curling iron."

There was a pause, and then Rachel's lifted voice came again from the room across the hall. "I touched the curling iron!" There was a brief, guilty silence. "I know you said not to, but I was only trying to help. I think I may have ruined the whole thing. Now I look like a Jewish Cindy Brady."

Shaking her head, Santana said with mild amusement, "I guarantee you she did it on purpose so that I have to stay in there with her longer."

But Brittany didn't seem to find it funny.

"Do you mind?" Santana asked.

"Of course not," she said. "Go ahead."

When she got to the door Santana looked back one more time. "You're sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah." She smiled again. "I'm sure."

But when she was gone, the troubled look returned to Brittany's face. She stared after her for a few seconds. Then slowly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. For a long time she sat there, staring at the application materials in her lap.


	11. Chapter 11: Flashback

A very important note, first, to say that this is probably not the chapter you think it is. This is a flashback to the fall, before Brittany arrived, to show what *really* happened with Rachel and with Millie. Originally it was supposed to be the first part of Ch. 11, but it grew so long I decided to split it off into a separate chapter. This means the story will now be 13 chapters total. The next one will be posted very soon, hopefully next week, and I promise will be overflowing with Brittany and Brittana. (I will say, though, that just because Brittany wasn't in NYC yet doesn't mean she's not a major part of this chapter.) And the final one will follow shortly after that. No more big gaps, I promise.

I also want to say that I realize this is much longer than it needs to be. I always get carried away, but for this section in particular, there's a sense that this is my last hurrah with these characters before Glee likely sours me on the whole thing (since we now know that Kurt, Rachel, and Santana really are going to live together.) This chapter is too long, it's too detailed, it interrupts the flow of the main narrative, it's probably not even necessary for the story - I'm aware of all the reasons not to include it. But here it is anyway, and it's up to you whether you want to read it.

To the people who hate Rachel and think Pezberry is "ruining" this story, you may want to check the summary again. The tension between Santana's new relationships with Kurt and Rachel and her original one with Brittany is the main thread of the plot. I took a few detours from it to tell some other stories in the middle, but now I'm returning to it for the finish. I already wrote a story that was just Brittana; I'm not interested in repeating it. This fic is about love _and _friendships, a craving that Glee rarely fulfills for me. So it definitely wouldn't be "brilliant" without that - it just wouldn't exist at all, because that's the plot.

To everyone who has taken the time to review, thank you so, so much. Don't think I don't know or appreciate what a tiny minority of readers you are. The amount of time I spend on this fic is at this point greater than what I spend on my paying job, and you guys are the only thing that makes it worth it. Again, thank you. (And if there are any questions, it would be easiest to bring them to my ask box on tumblr, since I don't leave much room here for answering.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: Flashback<strong>

_September - New York City_

It was the notebook that had started it all. That stupid goddamn notebook. If it hadn't been for that, if she'd never seen it, then maybe she wouldn't have gone off the deep end there for just a little while. Maybe her mind wouldn't have started playing tricks on her. (And okay, if she was honest, it wasn't exactly her _mind _that had been the problem.) Maybe she never even would have met Amelia. Everything might have been different, including what happened with Brittany in the spring. But of course, it was useless playing that maybe game. She _had _seen the notebook. She _had _started to lose her grip on reality, due to an unfortunate combination of paranoia and what one might delicately call physical loneliness. And she _had _met Millie, setting in motion everything that came afterwards from that unfortunate fling.

The entire mess had started, really, when the living room air conditioning unit stopped working during one last September heat wave. Even though fall and cooler weather were almost certainly just around the corner, it was stifling in the fourth-floor apartment. And none of them possessed the disposition to make the best of it, or to bear it silently. Kurt wore a sweat band and carried around a spray bottle in order to dramatically spritz himself in the face, Rachel swooned and wilted like a character in Gone With the Wind, and Santana moaned to anyone who would listen about the effect the humidity was having on her hair. They complained to the landlord, who did nothing but give them the phone number of a company he claimed would replace the unit for them. Since they were still getting used to this strange experience of living together and didn't know exactly how to settle disputes, they'd played rock-paper-scissors to determine who would be stuck making the arrangements, and to her irritation, Santana had lost.

So, on a Sunday afternoon when there were a hundred other things she'd rather be doing, she'd found herself alone in the apartment, on the couch, pissed off and sweating while she waited on hold. When she wasn't on hold, she was being transferred from one person to another, all of whom seemed to have Indian accents, and none of whom seemed to have any idea how to help her.

"Okay, here's an idea, Slumdog Telemarketer," she suggested to one, at the end of her patience. "Why don't you quit charming your snake for a minute, climb down off your elephant, and go and get me someone who speaks English!" She paused, listening. "Hello?"

She'd been disconnected. "_Bastard_," she muttered, dialing again.

On her second try, she attempted to reign in the insults, priding herself on the fact that she made only one reference to sacred cows. This time, she was processed through to what was apparently the next level of hell, where she was put on hold again. At one point a recorded voice came on the line to give her a service code, instructing her to make a note of it "for faster assistance." She doubted it would do any good, but just in case, she glanced around for something to write on. As luck would have it, there was a notebook of Rachel's, actually more of a composition book, on the coffee table. It had a retro plaid cover, like the spazz had traveled back in time to 1955 in order to purchase it.

Grabbing it, Santana flipped it open to a blank page and used the pink, cherry-scented ink pen that was clipped onto the cover to write down her service code. Then, since she was still on hold and there was nothing better to do, she idly flipped back to the beginning of the notebook and opened it. On the inner cover was a bold warning reading "PRIVATE," which she blithely ignored. If it was so damn private, why had it been left out in plain view on the coffee table in the first place?

She leaned back and propped her feet on the table, turning her bored attention to the first page. There, at the very top, was a multi-colored header reading "RACHEL BERRY'S LIFE GOALS," punctuated by a smiley face. Santana rolled her eyes at it, purely by instinct. She let her gaze roam down the list. At the top, obviously written some time ago, were items like "Become Finn Hudson's girlfriend" and "Win a National show choir championship." These had gold star stickers next to them, presumably to denote that they'd been accomplished. Closer to the middle of the list and also bearing stickers were the items "Become friends with Quinn Fabray," "Get accepted at a premier performing arts college," and "Move to New York City with Kurt."

Further down the page, the goals seemed to have been added more recently. Some of them were predictable, like "Win a Tony, an Oscar, a Grammy, and an Emmy, if possible in the same year," and "Perfect my English, Southern, Puerto Rican, and Yiddish accents." Some were weirdly and almost laughably specific, like, "Produce and star in the first Lifetime Original Movie Musical, then spin this off into my own network, _ala _Oprah, which will air nothing but musicals and interviews with me."

She skimmed over more like this, shaking her head at the ridiculousness, and was about to flip the page to see if the contents of the notebook became more interesting further in, when her eye was caught by an item toward the bottom. Sandwiched innocuously between number thirty-five, "Adopt a child from a Third World country; preferably black, but Asian will also work," and number thirty-seven, "Get invited to Barbra's 75th birthday party," was one which read simply: "#36. Have a Sapphic encounter of a sexual and/or romantic nature."

Santana stared at it, her eyes widening in surprise and then her forehead wrinkling in confusion. _What the fuck?_ She read it again, more slowly, to double-check that she hadn't imagined it. On one hand, maybe it shouldn't seem all that shocking that Rachel would plan for such a thing and include it on a demented list of life goals, because yes, she was the most open-minded and gay-friendly person on the planet, and yes, she was hungry for life experience, and yes, theater culture was notoriously fluid. But on the other hand... Again, _what the fuck_?

Now, finally, at the worst possible moment, a real live human voice came on the line and asked how she could help her.

"Yeah, hi," Santana said, distracted. "Um..." She closed the notebook and thrust it away from her, back onto the coffee table, resolving to forget she'd even opened it. She should have heeded the _private _warning. To the woman on the other end of the line, she said, "I - I need to talk to someone about the air conditioning unit in my lesbian. Living room!" she quickly corrected herself. "In my living room."

It seemed to take the rest of the afternoon to finalize the arrangements for the unit to be replaced, but because she acted aggressive and threw in some threatening phony legal jargon, they promised to send someone as soon as they could, within the next few days. By the time she was finished, she had to go straight to her homework, and so she had no time to ponder on the bizarre item she'd seen in the notebook. It was best not to think too deeply about any of Rachel's absurdities, anyway. After all, she was insane. None of it really meant anything.

And maybe that would have been the end of it, if it hadn't been for a series of unfortunate coincidences over the next few days, starting with a very special text from Brittany the following morning, on her way to class. "_Guess what_?" it read coyly. "_I spent all my back 2 school $$ on sth 4 u_."

Intrigued, but also a little concerned, she texted back, "_Britt! What did u buy?_"

In response, she received a picture.

Standing on a corner, waiting to cross the street, Santana angled the phone away from the sunlight to see it better, then gasped. It was an image of Brittany, posing suggestively on her bed, in the sexiest, most adult-looking set of lacy black lingerie she'd ever seen her wear. In the picture she stared straight at the camera, challenging, provocative.

"Oh my God," Santana muttered to herself, while she was jostled by people pushing past her to cross to the other side.

"_Lots more where that came from_. _U like_?" was the follow up question.

She texted back. "_What do u think_?"

Brittany replied with a wink emoticon, and Santana forced herself to put the phone away and concentrate on not getting hit by a car, which it seemed from the honking she had just narrowly avoided.

But while in classes that morning, she couldn't seem to get it out of her mind, no matter how hard she tried. Her hand kept going back to the phone, slipping it out surreptitiously under the desk to see if she'd missed a new picture. And since she hadn't, she might as well look at the original one again.

On her way home, almost as if Brittany knew her exact schedule, she received a second picture. In this one, Britt was wearing heavy eye makeup and was dressed in what looked like a dark violet leather bustier, posing seductively, and somehow dominantly, with one foot on a chair_. _"Holy shit," Santana breathed, slowing to a stop as she neared the subway entrance. "How did she even get into that thing?" She shielded the phone from a nosy passerby who was attempting to look.

"_Are u trying 2 kill me_?" she texted before she entered the station and lost the signal.

"_Thought u might like some inspiration_," was the response. Then, a few seconds later, the admission, "_Tina told me how 2 spell inspiration_."

Needless to say, the inspiration was a success, and by the time Santana got home she was feeling more than a little hot and bothered. Once inside the apartment, after she noted with annoyance that the damn air conditioning still hadn't been fixed and it was _still _stifling, she listened, hoping the place was empty, and then headed to her bedroom with one specific goal in mind.

She pushed open her door, already dropping her backpack and preparing to yank her shirt off, but then nearly jumped out of her skin when she realized there was someone standing in the corner, going through her jewelry box. Her first terrified thought was that it was a burglar, but a burglar would never be that short. It was Rachel. In a freaking towel.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Santana demanded.

"Oh," she said, startled and guilty. "I didn't think you'd be home so early. Can I borrow some earrings? Kurt and I have a fancy banquet to attend tonight, so I thought..."

"Fine," she interrupted, making an effort not to look. Because the towel was slipping, and she didn't seem to notice. _How could she not notice? _"Just take the whole box, and get out."

Rachel gave her a strange look. "Thanks." But when she passed her, she couldn't seem to resist stopping to ask, "Is everything okay?"

Santana drew in a deep breath and tried not to give in to a rant. In her best attempt at a calm voice, still looking resolutely over Rachel's head, she asked, "Could you put some clothes on, please?"

Finally, she looked down and readjusted the towel. "Well, yeah... that was kind of in the post-shower plans." Giving her another weird look, she left the room.

Santana closed the door firmly behind her and leaned against it. Now she didn't know what she wanted to do. Carry on with what she'd intended? It felt wrong now, somehow. Completely inappropriate. But in another way, it _didn't _feel wrong, it felt more necessary than ever, and maybe that was the most wrong part of all. She couldn't, though. She just couldn't, not with that disturbing image fresh in her mind and the scent of vanilla shampoo still lingering in the air. And what if the fraggle came back to return the jewelry box? There was no lock on the door. So instead, unnerved and frustrated, she yanked her backpack from the floor and pulled out her history textbook, deciding to distract herself from her own problems with the problems of people long dead.

And if that disturbing visitation had been the only odd thing to happen? Maybe it still would have blown over. Maybe she would have stayed on the right side of sanity. But of course, it wasn't. Because bad things, or in this case, crazy things, always happened in threes. Wasn't that how the saying went?

The very next day, after receiving more erotic images from Brittany (who apparently hadn't been exaggerating when she said she'd spent all her money on lingerie), she'd come home feeling much the same way she'd felt the day before. And this time it was worse, because in her English class, the lecture topic had been, of all things, the role of lust in American literature. She'd spent the entire class shifting uncomfortably in her seat, wondering if it was her imagination or if the professor's cleavage really was much more prominent than usual. And didn't anyone else think it was weird that they were talking about orgasms in school? It didn't seem so.

At home, she took a few seconds to be pissed at the still-broken air conditioner, but then headed toward her room. This time she made it inside without any mishaps, and was in the process of locating on her computer a very special video she and Brittany had made, a file labeled "Finger positioning," which was hidden inside a file labeled "Jazz hands," which was itself hidden inside a file called "Cheerleading Association Rulebook." She'd tried to make the path to it as boring as possible in order to discourage snoops.

But she hadn't even managed to click play when there was a timid tap on the door. "Santana?" Rachel asked. "Can we borrow you for a minute?"

She closed her eyes and sighed. _You can not be serious, _she thought at the universe in general_. _Through gritted teeth, she called back, "Can't it wait?"

"It won't take long, I promise."

When she reluctantly opened the door and followed her into her room, she found Kurt sitting on the bed. She gave him a questioning look, but he only shrugged in response. When she'd sat down next to him, arms crossed in mute resignation, Rachel came to stand in front of them, wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe.

"All right, what I need from both of you is for you... well, basically to pretend you're Finn. Do you think you can do that for a minute?"

"What is that smell?" Santana immediately asked, pretending to sniff her armpit. "Do you smell that? I already had my weekly shower. Is that me?"

"I don't know," Kurt said. "But I really don't have time for this, Rachel. I have to poop again, which is strange, because I've already gone four times today."

Santana laughed, unable to stay in-character, but Rachel was unamused. "All right, _all right_!" she interrupted them. "Fine. Don't be Finn, just be yourselves."

Then, with no further warning or words of preparation, she dropped the bathrobe. Underneath it, she was wearing nothing but a very skimpy pair of matching pink lingerie.

"Oh sweet mother of Liza," Kurt said, holding up his hand and wincing like he'd been blinded by a sun flare. "What did I just see? Please, please someone tell me when it's over."

"_Jesus_, Berry!" Santana said, baffled. "What the hell?" And that was when the first hint of suspicion flashed through her mind. _She's doing it on purpose. It's all part of a plan. Why is this the second day in a row I've seen her half naked?_

"Okay, okay, you're right," Rachel agreed quickly, "I probably should have explained first." She pulled the robe back on.

Santana nudged Kurt to let him know it was safe. He cautiously lowered his hand from his eyes.

"I realize this may seem a little strange," Rachel began. "But when Kurt told me about the sexy pictures Brittany's been sending you, I thought it sounded like such a brilliant way to keep up, shall we say, _interest _in a long-distance relationship. So I thought I should do the same thing, for Finn. Only I'll be having my pictures taken professionally, by a very nice man I met on the subway," she added in an aside. "It's just that I can only afford one set, so I have to make sure I choose the most flattering ensemble. The one that'll really get him, you know..." she wiggled her shoulders a little in what was apparently supposed to be suggestive. "Perked up. That's where you two come in. I need your advice."

Santana winced. "Okay, there was so much wrong with that speech, I don't even know where to start," she said. "First off, _you _are not reading my texts anymore," she said, pointing her finger at a guilty-looking Kurt. "And secondly... _really_, Rachel? A guy from the subway? You know, before you left Lima, Becky and I made a wager about how long it would take you to get yourself stabbed - I said two months, she said five. And even though it looks like I'm about to win a truckload of bling, I feel sort of bad knowing about it _in advance_. And the third wrong thing is..." she trailed off, stumped. "I actually can't remember the third thing because I'm already having trauma flashbacks, and it just happened a few minutes ago."

Rachel waited impatiently for this harangue to be over, and when it finally ended, she said, "Okay, well, we can talk about the details of the photoshoot later, but for right now, can you please just help me? Kurt?" she begged, clasping her hands together and giving him her best sad puppy-dog eyes.

He sighed, unable to resist. "Fine, I'll do my best. But you owe me."

"Thank you," she smiled at him. "So, okay, one more time, this is option number one." She opened the robe again, like a trenchcoat flasher, and they both reluctantly looked. "Now wait here for just a second," she said, dashing out of the room. Less than a minute later she returned, not even bothering to wear the robe this time. Now the lingerie was red, and if possible, this set covered even less than the pink one. Kurt looked queasy.

Rachel made one full turn, like a runway model. "And this is option number two."

"Please tell me there's not an option number three," Kurt muttered.

"No, it's just these two," she assured him. "So... what do you think?"

Santana looked at Kurt, waiting for him to go first, and also because she needed to look somewhere other than directly in front of her. He started to speak, stopped himself, and then stood, apologetic. "Rachel, I'm sorry. I can't do this. You know I love you, and I would do anything for you. I would give you a kidney if you needed it. But right now, for the first time in my life, I feel like I need to go and watch a heaping dose of gay porn."

Rachel looked disappointed, but she didn't try to stop him.

"Traitor," Santana said under her breath, feeling abandoned as she watched him go.

"To be honest," Rachel said in a confiding tone when they were alone, "Your opinion is the one I really wanted anyway. Kurt's expertise only goes so far."

Santana looked away again, uncomfortable. And why was it still _so fucking hot_ in this hellhole of an apartment? Did she have to murder somebody to get the damned air conditioning fixed? Because she would do it. She would slit someone's throat if it would make it easier to breathe in here.

Realizing that she wasn't going to be let off the hook until she said something, she finally offered, "The pink is more you."

Rachel waited, uncertain. "So, the pink then?"

She sighed, miserable, glancing once more at the current option and feeling her face heat up even more before she looked away. After a brief hesitation, she said, "No, go with the red. He'll like the red better. And I'm _not _going to elaborate, so don't ask," she added hastily, already on her way out of the room.

"Okay," Rachel said, grateful. "Thank you! If you ever need _my _advice on anything- "

"I won't," Santana cut her off. She retreated to her own bedroom, where for the second day in a row she immediately devoted an unusual and obsessive amount of attention to her homework.

But the hint of suspicion that had occurred to her during the impromptu and alarming fashion show wouldn't quite go away. It kept clinging on to the edges of her thoughts, coloring everything with a tinge of uneasiness. It was then that she remembered the discovery of the notebook a few days earlier. _Holy shit_, she thought, looking up from her research paper. What if it had been left there on purpose, for her to find it? What if Rachel was messing with her head? Or worse, what if she was trying to accomplish number thirty-six on her psychotic list? After all, the doughboy was temporarily out of the picture. What better time for a little... experimentation? She couldn't adopt the Asian kid yet, and the Lifetime movie would have to wait, but maybe she'd seen her chance to give at least one more item a gold star of accomplishment. _And what does that make me? _Santana wondered with mild panic. _The lab rat? _

Of course, even as these thoughts flickered through her head, she knew exactly how ridiculous, how outside of the bounds of reality, they surely were. She _knew _that. But in another instance of unfortunate timing, she'd recently made another discovery, this one about herself. It had come to her attention, in one of those sudden illuminating bursts of insight, that this, right here and now in New York City, was the longest she had ever gone in her entire life without sex since first losing her virginity. And once you'd realized something like that, you couldn't un-realize it.

At first she'd thought about going home for a weekend, or asking Brittany to come here. But with as much delicacy as possible, Brittany had tried to make her understand how hard she was working to graduate at the end of the semester, and that losing an entire weekend could be disastrous to that goal. Which of course Santana understood, and felt bad for not thinking of it herself. And after all, if a little denial now meant that Brittany could get here sooner, it would all be worth it. But the self-satisfaction she got from this noble sacrifice didn't make the day-to-day longing for her any easier to deal with. To make matters worse, their attempts at long-distance intimacy hadn't so far been very successful. During phone sex, while enthusiastic and willing, Brittany tended to get a bit too imaginative with the details. For instance, their first try had begun with her claiming to hear a knock on her front door.

She'd gasped in faux-surprise, then said, "Santana, you'll never guess who it is." Then, after a pause, "It's Kim Kardashian! She wants to know if she can join in."

Laughing, Santana couldn't help being touched by the consideration. "_Britt_," she said, gently. "That's so sweet of you, that you thought to invite her. But I think, for tonight, I'd rather have it be just us."

"You sure?" Brittany asked in a tempting tone. "She looks _really _hot."

"I'm sure," she said, still smiling. "But thank you."

"Okay, she left," Brittany said, and in the background it did sound as if she'd actually slammed her front door. "She said she had other stuff to do anyway."

Then, after ditching Kim, the logistics of the physical maneuvering had proved to be complicated in ways Santana hadn't expected.

"I'm kissing that spot under your ear that you like," she breathed into the phone. "And I'm using my tongue, but just a little."

Brittany giggled. "I love when you do that, it gives me goosebumps."

"Okay, now you," Santana prompted her.

"Oh. Okay, um... I have both hands under your shirt, and I'm trying to take your bra off, but I'm having trouble because it's that weird polka dot bra with the extra clasps that always slows me down."

Santana tried to ignore the fact that this was proving to be more adorable than sexy. "All right, well, while you're doing that," she said in a seductive whisper, "I'm kissing you on the lips, and now I'm using _more _than just a little tongue."

"Good. Me too. Lots of tongue." Santana could hear the smile in her voice. "Oh, and now one hand is undoing your zipper."

"Yeah?" she asked, biting her lip in anticipation, moving her own hand into position. "Wait, did you ever get my bra off?"

"Oh shoot, I forgot about that," Brittany said. "Okay, pretend I have three arms, and two hands are still under your shirt. I know! Pretend I have _four _arms. That way one can be grabbing your butt at the same time."

"What?" she asked, momentarily taken out of the fantasy. "No, I don't want to do that."

"Why not? It's imaginary, we can have as many arms as we want."

"Because," she insisted. "I don't want to have sex with a human spider."

A long, thoughtful pause followed this observation.

Finally, in a resigned tone, Santana asked, "Britt? You're picturing how cool it would be to have sex with a human spider, aren't you?"

"No," was Brittany's guilty reply. "But... we should totally be writing this stuff down, these are great ideas. Hold on a sec, I'm gonna get a pen."

Santana waited, and then waited some more. "Brittany?" she asked into the silence. With a sigh, she'd reluctantly pulled her hand out of her pants.

Skyping, as well, had proven to be hit-or-miss in terms of success. Sometimes it worked, but most of the time it didn't. Brittany's little sister had a bad habit of knocking on her bedroom door at the worst possible moments, and there was nothing like the voice of a ten-year-old asking to borrow a scrunchie to take you right the hell out of the mood.

Plus, since moving in with Kurt and Rachel, she'd had to compete for bandwidth with whoever else happened to be online in the apartment at the same time. In fact, just nights earlier, when they'd attempted a video chat, the picture had frozen on Brittany at the precise moment that her fingers slid under the waistband of her underwear, but before she could get them down. In frustration, Santana had smacked the back of the laptop, yelling, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

When she realized this wouldn't help, she'd gone looking for the culprit, and upon investigation discovered that she wasn't the only one using the internet. Kurt was forty percent of the way through a massive download of what he termed "sophisticated fashion training tools," but which looked to Santana suspiciously like paper dolls. And Rachel was streaming a live Saudi Arabian production of Cats, which she claimed was just like the original, only all the female cats were wearing burkas. "Do you want to watch with me?" she'd offered. Santana's response was a look of outraged disbelief, and then a retreat to her own room, the door slammed behind her. So much for Skype sex.

Clearly, things were frustrating enough already. But with the realization that she'd exceeded her own record for abstinence, it all suddenly became much more noticeable. As a matter of fact, sex seemed to be at the forefront of her consciousness for a good portion of every day. And everything seemed to be conspiring against her. There was the heat wave, of course, and the fact that getting an air conditioner repaired in Sunset Park, Brooklyn was apparently less likely than finding a decent bagel in Lima, Ohio. There were Brittany's erotic pictures, which had already turned into a substantial gallery and which showed no signs of tapering off. And now, with the worst timing possible, there was this new weirdness with Rachel.

On her guard now at home, Santana monitored her warily for signs of attempted enticement, and was alarmed to discover unnerving hints almost everywhere she looked. Because now, of course, things that might have seemed innocent or at most vaguely annoying a few weeks ago seemed calculated and, if the word could possibly be applied to Rachel, lascivious. Had she always been so freaking handsy? So quick to invade personal space? Had she always twirled her hair in that unconscious-yet-clearly-deliberate way when she watched TV? When had she started wearing clothes that actually fit her? And really, what was the point of singing in the shower, if not to alert everyone to the fact that you were _in _the shower and therefore naked?

But why would she even be _thinking _about that? Santana chastised herself in horror whenever she caught herself doing it. It was obscene, and shameful, and wrong. Like getting a crush on your cousin, or finding your stepsister sexy. It felt dirty and taboo, and not in the good way. So really, there was only one explanation, and that was that she was being bewitched, or hypnotized in some manner. It was some weird sex voodoo, it had to be. _I'm the victim here_, she reminded herself. She was being carnally persecuted. Ensnared. Preyed upon psychologically while in a vulnerable state. _If you really think about it, _she told herself, _she's practically like a sex offender._

All the while, of course, she was perfectly conscious of the fact that she was losing her mind. But her own body was betraying her, working against her. With the realization of just how long it had been, she was agonizingly conscious of it at all times. She felt suffused with desire, saturated with longing. It was like she had pure hormones running through her veins instead of blood. At school, the atoms her physical science instructor drew on the whiteboard reminded her of boobs, complete with nucleus nipples. At the laundromat, the rhythmic thumping of the clothes dryer sounded like a headboard knocking into the wall. The entire world reeked of sex. She couldn't look at a streetlight without wanting to wrap her legs around it. The stray dogs humping on the corner seemed to be staring at her with deliberate mockery as she passed, and she turned away from them in exaggerated alarm. _What if there's something wrong with me? _she wondered. _Can extreme horniness be a medical condition?_

She had reached a point where she wished there was a switch she could flip to just shut it all down. What had been once been pleasant anticipation and excitement was now a torment. Is this what single people felt like? she wondered. Why didn't they just kill themselves and get it over with? But deep down, there was a small voice reminding her that she was _one _of them now, wasn't she? For all intents and purposes, wasn't she single? _No, I'm not_, she insisted stubbornly to herself, refusing to think too deeply about the implications of her last conversation in Lima with Brittany, or to ask her for clarification. _I have a girlfriend._

So she persisted in doing her best to battle the cravings that were now plaguing her every waking moment, but to do so without examining them. Because dwelling on them at any length meant looking underneath the surface layer, peeling back the lust and exposing the longing, the loneliness, underneath. It meant confronting the fact that no matter how much she wanted to reach out with her shoe and give a teasing nudge to Brittany's foot in class, she couldn't do that anymore. When she felt the weight of someone's eyes on her, she wouldn't find Brittany's gaze when she looked up, wouldn't feel her own gaze catch and snag on it, and the almost visceral sensation of connectedness when that happened. There was no waist to hook her arm around, no shoulder to lean on during a scary movie, no warm weight of a casual, possessive hand resting on the small of her back, marking her as someone's girlfriend. Even more than sex, she missed the simple touch of someone else's skin against her own.

And touch wasn't the only sense that was being starved. She even yearned for the scent of Brittany, for the bright citrusy notes of her shampoo, for the gum she always chewed after lunch, for her favorite perfume, which Santana had caught an unexpected whiff of a few days ago in an elevator; but upon turning, heart already picking up speed, she'd found it was just a stranger. She missed those signature fragrances, but even more than these, she longed for the more powerful, natural scents of her body. Her sweat after a cheerleading practice, or even better, after sex. Her breath - yes, including in the morning, because of the intimacy it implied. The scent between her legs. _Oh God_, Santana thought, resolutely forcing her mind away from that avenue. Because if you were going down the senses checklist, what came next after touch and smell? Taste. Taste came next.

So how the hell could _talking _ever be expected to bridge these gaps? Obviously, they could and did talk on the phone every day, usually more than once a day. But it was only now beginning to sink in how much of a paltry, insufficient substitute it was. So much of their connection depended on those glances, on those touches, on those scents and tastes. And even when they managed to bring some version of a long-distance sexual encounter to completion, there was an inevitable and immediate sense of sadness when it was over. They both stayed on the line, listening to each other breathe, not knowing what to say. Because, after all, you couldn't hold someone over the phone. You couldn't run your hand through someone's hair, or nuzzle into the space underneath her chin, or fall asleep folded into her body.

She longed for all these things with an ache that was physical, but at the same time so much more than physical. Maybe, she considered, her body going haywire with desire was like a subconscious distraction, a reason not to think about all that other stuff. Or maybe she was just randy beyond belief. In any case, it was the lust that seemed the easiest to deal with at the moment. Lust didn't make you cry, or feel like your heart was breaking. In fact, it wasn't located anywhere near the heart. All things considered, lust was relatively simple and straightforward... even when it did seem to be increasingly and terrifyingly focused on the very last person on the planet it should ever be focused on.

After the lingerie scare, she tried to avoid Rachel as much as possible over the next few days, determined to thwart her nefarious plans. It wasn't an easy task, considering that they all lived practically piled on top of each other, but she did her best. She also prided herself on the fact that she managed to keep her cool, to not give away that she knew what was going on. Only once did she momentarily panic, flattening herself against the wall in the narrow hallway to let her diminutive temptress pass, determined that their elbows wouldn't brush. Rachel stopped to stare at her, concerned. "Santana, is there something going on with you? Anything you want to talk about?"

"Oh, you'd _love _for me to answer that, wouldn't you, Lolita?" she snapped, in a tone of voice that meant _Nice try_. She made her triumphant escape to the kitchen, leaving Rachel looking perplexed. Which was of course just an act, as she couldn't let herself forget. Santana had now moved past suspicion into pure paranoia.

But it wasn't until Friday that the key third piece of the plot was put into action, though of course she didn't realize it at the time, or she never would have let herself be tricked into going out with them. She already had plans of her own, for dinner at an expensive restaurant with one of her elderly professors who she suspected was trying to sleep with her. Her idea had been to get a fancy meal or two out of him, maybe even jewelry if she played her cards right, and _then _to tell him she was gay and that he should stick to trolling the nursing homes for dates. But he'd cancelled on her at the last minute, citing the fact that his wife was back in town. So apparently even _that _guy was going to get some tonight.

Kurt and Rachel and their new fake IDs were meeting NYADA friends for drinks at a gay karaoke bar (Santana took issue with the semantics of this, because really, weren't all karaoke bars _already _gay?), and when they'd casually invited her to come with them, her first instinct had been to say no. But then she realized that if she stayed home, her evening plans would most likely consist of begging Brittany to send more pictures, and at some point stealing the batteries out of the remote control. Maybe it would be best to get out for a while. At least there would be alcohol. And if Rachel tried anything extreme, there would be witnesses. Witnesses who would intervene and rescue her.

Except that nobody but her was aware of the scheming, and so nobody else seemed to find it the least bit alarming or noteworthy when, after only a few drinks, Rachel and her unusually low-cut shirt made a beeline for the stage, followed by the familiar (and, to Santana, distressing) opening chords of Christina Aguilera's _Genie in a Bottle_. Immediately, she'd downed the rest of her drink and then grabbed Kurt's, finishing his off despite his protests. But it couldn't kick in fast enough to allow her to be anything but rigid and uncomfortable when the predatory prima donna inevitably descended from the stage, singing the suggestive chorus while circling their table, wiggling Polly Lin's glasses, running a hand through Kurt's hair (which he didn't appreciate), and then, _of course_, briefly perching on Santana's lap in order to sing directly to her and then to swoop backwards and flirt with Polly's non-English speaking date. Santana managed a stiff smile, then after watching Rachel strut back to the stage, she snagged two tequila shooters from a waiter's tray as he passed, asking him, "Can you keep these coming?"

Eventually she'd had enough liquor to relax a little, and she somehow managed to enjoy the rest of the evening, especially her over the top, cheesy duet with Kurt to _A Whole New World_ (even though he insisted on singing the Jasmine part.) Then, when urged to do a solo, she tried to come up with the most ridiculous and un-sexy song she could, something that couldn't possibly be interpreted as a response to _Genie in a Bottle_. After a hasty scroll through the choices, she'd finally landed on _Party in the USA_. Rachel's attempts to make it a duet were defeated, and she was relegated to backup - along with Polly's confused Korean friend, who had been told by his mother he was going out to dinner with a nice young lady, and who couldn't seem to understand who these other people were and why they wouldn't stop singing and touching each other.

But even while mildly intoxicated, Santana tried not to let her guard down. On the subway ride home, she made sure she kept Kurt between herself and the babbling, spectacularly drunk Rachel at all times. And when Rachel seemed to have trouble walking on the sidewalk approaching their building, she kept her distance, knowing it was a ruse. As was, obviously, the hard fall she took on the steps to the front door, banging her knee. Santana let Kurt help her up, pretending not to notice, and then inside, endured a five-minute lecture from Pete (who was also probably part of the scheme, now that she thought about it) on Greta's propensity for hangovers, and how she should put a cold cloth on her head and make her chew aspirin while listening to Count Basie records.

Finally they managed to get upstairs, on their own floor, and so close to safety - but then, of all nights, she couldn't find her keys, meaning that Kurt had to search for his, meaning that he had to pass Rachel off to her, since by this point (though still in a state of blissful giddiness), she didn't seem capable of standing on her own.

_You've got to be fucking kidding me_, Santana thought. Her first terrified instinct was to just let go and allow her to slump to the floor, but even she wasn't quite that callous. So she held herself as rigid as possible, trying to numb her nerve endings, trying not to think about the fact that this was the most physical contact she'd had with another person, another _girl_, in months. She tried not to notice the warm weight against her, or the arms clinging to her, or the breathing against her neck. Closing her eyes didn't help much, either. If anything, it made it worse.

"Santana, how do you always smell so good? I've always wondered that," were the cheerful, slurred words spoken just below her ear. "You smell like Spanish."

She trained all her focus on deciding whether this statement was complimentary or offensive, forcing herself not to move. After a few seconds she snapped at Kurt, "Holy crap, is this the first door you've ever unlocked, Inspector Clouseau?"

When after what felt like approximately three hours he finally let them in, she pushed Rachel back at him, shoved past them both, and headed straight for the shower, where she kept the water temperature as cold as she could stand it.

But when she eventually went to bed, it was with the satisfactory sense that she'd vanquished the enemy. It was like that mythology crap they'd had to study in English junior year. There were always three challenges, and if you made it through the third one, you were home free. It was actually the perfect metaphor, she reasoned, because Rachel even _looked _like a mythological creature. And now that Santana had stood her ground, had proved that she wasn't that desperate, would never be that desperate, it was over. She'd won. She was like a sexual Mount Everest, and amateurs need not apply. She drifted off to sleep, feeling smug and victorious.

Then, in the middle of the night, she sat bolt upright in her bed, gasping in panic at the dream she'd just had, which had actually been quite enjoyable right up until the last minute, when Brittany suddenly wasn't Brittany anymore. Brittany was Rachel, in her new red underwear, asking in a chipper voice if Santana wanted breakfast in bed. "No," she said to herself, shaking her head in horror. "_No no no no no no_. What the hell is happening to me?"

In penance, she dragged herself out of bed and spent the rest of the night sitting in the middle of her bare floor, staring at the pictures of Brittany in lingerie.

Saturday morning, she escaped early before anyone else was up, spending the first half of the day shopping and then the second half on the subway, riding aimlessly all over the city, lusting after random strangers while at the same time wanting to kill somebody. When she got home later in the evening, she found that Kurt was in the bathroom, getting ready for his big romantic night with Blaine. She'd completely forgotten, in her current self-obsessed state, that he was due to arrive in the city for his first visit that evening. The two of them had even booked a hotel for the weekend, which meant that most of the time, Kurt wouldn't be here in the apartment. The realization that she was going to be by herself with Rachel for two days prompted her to take action. She felt like she was going to go insane if she didn't confess her suspicions to someone. Okay, so it seemed pretty likely she already _had _gone insane, but at least Kurt could confirm it for her.

So after taking a deep breath to prepare herself, she came and stood in the bathroom doorway, double checking the hall to make sure they were alone, even though she knew they were. They were the only ones home.

"I need to talk to you about something," she told him a low voice, feeling like a spy.

"Go on," he urged her, intrigued. He didn't look away from his own reflection though, or stop styling his hair.

"Okay, but listen, it may sound sort of crazy, so you have to promise you're not gonna give me that '_I'm judging you but I'm too sophisticated to say it' _look.

He considered this, seeming to commune with the mirror, but then shook his head slightly. "No, I can't promise that." He added, "But I can promise to listen."

She checked behind her again, anxious, and then took a step closer. Just above a whisper, she told him, "I think Rachel is trying to seduce me."

Slowly, he lowered his arm from his hair and in the same motion turned his head to the side, giving her a long drawn-out skeptical once-over.

"_That'_s the look I was talking about," she said accusingly. "All right, listen, I know how it sounds. But earlier this week, I found this cracked-out bucket list of all the crazy shit she wants to do before she dies, and guess what number thirty-six is? She wants to _sleep with a woman_. It's almost like she left it there so that I would see it. And ever since then, she keeps doing all these weird things, like not wearing clothes, and... and _breathing _on me. And really, _Genie in a Bottle_? What was that about? And you've seen how schizoid she gets about that Olive and Greta crap. It's just all these subtle little things that keep adding up, Kurt."

"Okay, I'm going to stop you right there," he said, adding more gel. "Because you just used the word _subtle_, and even leaving aside the rest of the craziness you spouted, I can tell you with absolute confidence that Rachel isn't subtle. She couldn't be subtle if her life depended on it. A Rachel Berry seduction would be like Betty Boop on meth. You know this."

She sighed, but couldn't help acknowledging in a grudging tone, "That's true." She watched him for a few seconds as he smeared some kind of concealer under his eyes. Distracted, she asked, "You wear makeup?"

He gave a self-conscious glance to the side. "It's for men."

She attempted to grab the tube to examine the label, but he snatched it away from her and put it back in his case.

Then she went back to her confession. "Okay, yeah, maybe you're right, maybe she's not subtle. But you know what? I'm Santana freakin' Lopez. I don't hallucinate. I once ate nothing but coffee beans for two weeks, and the only weird thing I saw was Coach Sylvester having a tea party in the teacher's lounge with that Monty Python guy and four of the Spice Girls. And there's at least a fifty percent chance that it was real, because Brittany saw it too."

Kurt chose not to comment directly on this. "All right, well, leaving aside your history of mental acuity, don't you think maybe this could be a case of... seeing what you want to see?"

"Why would I _want _to see this stuff?" She looked at him like he was crazy. "It's disgusting. Did you happen to notice the way she ate that popsicle yesterday? It was downright pornographic. Oh, and also, I'm pretty sure her skirts are getting shorter. No, seriously Kurt, _every day_, they're just a little bit shorter. I think she must stay up all night long altering them. You're telling me this is all a coincidence? That it's all in my head? Let's get a ruler right now and measure those tramp wraps, and I guarantee you'll see that I'm right."

Now he turned toward her and put his hands firmly on her shoulders, looking her straight in the eye. "Okay, Santana? You have to get a grip. Believe me when I say that I don't like to throw around this kind of coarse language lightly, because I'm a gentleman and I have standards. But I'm just going to come right out and say it. _You need to get laid_." He moved past her, into the hallway, but she remained standing where she was for a second, her face a mask of insulted dismay.

"Oh, that's easy for _you _to say," she finally managed to sputter, turning to follow him into the front entryway where he was trying to determine which jacket went best with his outfit. "When you've got your plastic-haired dreamboat Ken doll to play with for an entire weekend. Must be nice to look down from your bordello while you pity all us sexless peasants in the dust."

"Well, I'm sorry," he told her, and it sounded like genuinely meant it. "I'm sorry that Blaine can visit, and that Brittany can't. But it is what it is. The fact is, you don't even know for sure when you're going to see her again."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," she said with bitterness. "Thanks for the reminder."

"You don't have to be ashamed of being lonely. I'm not judging you. And to be honest, this whole thing with Rachel? Deep down, I don't think you're really afraid of what she might do. You're afraid of what _you _might do."

Scornfully, but also with the slightest hint of uncertainty, she said, "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He finally found the jacket he was looking for and pulled it on. "Maybe you're just clinging to what's familiar, because that's all you've ever known. Rachel may be annoying, but she _is _familiar. It's less scary than going out there and meeting somebody new. Which is what you should be doing, and you know it."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," she told him, crossing her arms in resentment. "I forgot that your _one boyfriend ever _makes you a certified relationship guru."

"You're the one who asked for my advice, Santana. Take it or leave it.

"I didn't ask for your advice, I just wanted to unload on you," she muttered sullenly. "It's different."

But before she could manage to mull over his words to decide if they were utter bullshit or if there was some kind of gay-yoda wisdom in them worth contemplating, the front door opened and Rachel appeared, like she'd been waiting for her cue. Still limping the slightest bit from her drunken fall the night before, she nevertheless rushed up to Kurt with a look of glowing adoration. "Look at you, Mr. Beau Brummell!" she gushed. "Are you excited for your big romantic weekend?"

"Maybe a little," he said, clasping her hands. "Okay, a lot," he practically squealed, while the two of them fawned and bounced and beamed at each other. Kurt's voice just barely contained his excitement as he added, "I feel like Cinderella about to meet the prince, only my stepsisters aren't ugly and I have better shoes."

"I'm so happy and excited for you," Rachel said, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she gazed up at him. "I really, _really _am. I'm not jealous at all. Because you deserve this."

"_Ugh_," Santana scoffed, pushing past them. "Spare me." If she had to endure this for another second, she was going to vomit. It was like watching puppies lick each other.

"Oh, Santana, don't feel bad," Rachel said, only now seeming to notice her presence. She removed a paper shopping bag from her arm. "Since Kurt won't be here and we spinsters have the place to ourselves, I got us a special treat. A bottle of wine, _and_..." she whipped out a DVD with a flourish. "Fried Green Tomatoes!"

Santana shot Kurt a meaningful look that was half _You see? _and half _Please don't leave me_.

He hesitated for just a second as he hoisted his designer knapsack to his shoulder, maybe mourning the loss of entertainment potential, but then ignored her and headed toward the door. "Time for me to skedaddle. Have a lovely night, ladies. I'll steal some fluffy hotel bathrobes for you if I can fit them into my overnight bag." He gave Santana an amused, pointed look. "Behave yourselves."

"Bye," Rachel said, waving at him. "Have fun. Oh, and tell Blaine we said we're so happy he's here, and we can't wait to see him tomorrow, and that we've been looking forward to it for ages."

"No, I didn't say that," Santana shook her head in denial. "_She _said that." She added in a warning tone as Kurt closed the door, "Don't tell him I said that!"

When he was gone and it was officially just the two of them, Santana cast a wary glance to the side. "I've got some homework I need to finish." Without waiting for an answer, she made a grateful escape to her bedroom. In actuality, she didn't have any homework to finish, so she started in on the assignments for the coming month. At this rate she would have the entire semester's work load completed by the end of next week.

But inevitably, before too long came the by now expected knock. "Dinner's here," Rachel said, peeking around the door. "I hope you don't mind, I ordered Chinese."

"You didn't even ask what I wanted," Santana complained, knowing she sounded petulant.

Rachel gave her an innocent smile before she went back to the living room. "I know what you like."

Santana remained where she was for a minute, her face betraying what to anyone other than herself would have seemed a comic level of uneasiness and dread.

Eventually she made her reluctant way into the living room, where the cartons of food and the wine had already been placed on the coffee table. Apprehensive, she approached the sofa sat down.

"Here's our glasses," Rachel said, coming back into the room from the kitchen and sitting next to her. "And also, a box of tissues so we don't soak the couch."

"_What_?" Santana asked, alarmed.

Rachel gave her a strange look, gesturing toward the TV. "It's a tearjerker."

"Oh. Right." _Get a fucking grip, Lopez, _she told herself.

Rachel put the DVD in and started the movie. Swigging down one glass of wine and pouring herself another, Santana managed after a bit to eat her dinner, which was, almost to her irritation, exactly what she would have ordered if she'd been asked. Gradually, she relaxed and began to feel more calm. She could do this. This was no big deal. She'd made it this far, hadn't she? There was nothing to be afraid of here. Only when she cracked open her fortune cookie did she experience another mild flare-up of suspicion. She read it to herself in disbelief. _Sometimes it's best to give in to temptation._

"What does it say?" Rachel asked.

"Um... it's blank," she answered, crumpling the strip of paper in her hand.

"Oh no." Rachel looked worried. "Doesn't that mean you're gonna die soon?"

"Yeah, well," she shrugged. "You can't win 'em all. What about yours?"

Rachel broke her cookie open and checked her own fortune. "Mine says, '_The most difficult goals are the ones most worth pursuing_.'" She smiled at the paper, then looked up at Santana. "I definitely agree with that."

Choosing not to comment, Santana nervously turned her attention back to the TV. She forced herself to take a deep breath, leaned back into the cushions, and tried to relax again. Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then fifteen. _See, this isn't so bad_, she told herself. She'd been worried for no reason. This was nothing more than two platonic roommates watching a mildly-veiled lesbian love story. Straight girls did this all the time, right? Not that she would know, of course. Most of her "straight" pajama parties had ended with her and Brittany crammed together in one sleeping bag, doing very indecent and non-straight things to each other. But this was different. This was just a casual movie night with a friend who happened to be a girl. That's why they were called chick flicks. Just innocent fun, nothing to freak out about, and obviously the stuff she'd been getting paranoid over was all in her imagination, and _oh my God what the fuck is that, what is touching my leg? _

Stiffening in terror, she tried to glance down without moving her head or drawing attention to herself. What she discovered was a foot, a bare foot, pressing lightly against her upper thigh. No, not just one foot, two feet_. _Two bare feet that were resting against her in a casual way as if they had every right to be there. Shocked, she let her gaze follow the feet up the legs they belonged to, past the appallingly short skirt, all the way up to the torso and the relaxed, folded arms lying against it, where she found that Rachel was now facing sideways on the couch, leaning against the arm rest with her legs stretched out in front of her, but with her head turned toward the TV. She still appeared very much absorbed in the movie, her face changing every few seconds to reflect the emotional lives of the characters.

_She doesn't even know she's doing it,_ Santana told herself. _It's a reflex, like how babies make those sucking noises in their sleep. She just has to be touching someone. _She tried to ignore it, to block it out. But it was impossible. Because now the toes on the feet pressed against her seemed to be moving in the slightest, almost imperceptible kneading motion, and all the built-up suspicion and frustration and lust from the previous week was rushing at her, making it hard to breathe, and it was still a thousand fucking degrees in here, and everybody in the world was having sex while they were watching this lame eighties movie, and she couldn't bear this torture a second longer. So she turned and gripped the tiny ankles with the intention to shove them away from her, maybe hard enough to knock the troll doll off the couch entirely and let her know that this shit was not okay.

But she hesitated for just a second too long, still with her hands around the ankles, for some reason not letting go yet. Rachel turned from the TV, her attention distracted, staring first at her feet and then at Santana, and now, finally, _she _was the one who looked startled. But she didn't say anything; she just waited, questioning. The moment seemed to stretch out, and Santana realized Kurt had been right, it was herself she was afraid of, and that nothing weird had been going on at all, she'd imagined all of it; but at the exact same instant of realizing this, she had the strangest sense that if she dove across the couch right now, right at this precise second, she wouldn't be pushed away. And that couldn't be true, could it?

She jerked her hands away from the offending ankles like she'd been burned and stood suddenly - so suddenly that the nearly-empty carton of fried rice tumbled from her lap onto the floor.

Without bothering to pick it up, she stepped over the mess and headed toward the front door. "I'm going out."

"What?" Rachel looked at her like she was crazy, finally putting her feet back onto the floor where they belonged. "By yourself? It's already dark."

"Yeah, well, it's not a school night, Grandma." She avoided eye contact as she grabbed a jacket. Even though at the moment she could feel sweat sliding down her back and heat rising from her face, and she didn't think she'd ever feel like wearing a jacket again, she needed something to do with her hands. "You don't have to wait up."

"Santana." Rachel got up and came toward the front hall, concerned. "It could be dangerous. We're not that used to this neighborhood yet, and- "

"I'll be fine," she insisted, still not looking at her. "I've got my phone, and my pepper spray. Plus, if I speak Spanish, it makes me sound more intimidating."

Hesitantly, she offered, "I can change and come with you..."

"Oh my God, you really can't take a hint, can you?" Santana blurted out, finally turning to look at her. "Let me spell it out for you, then. _I don't want to hang out with you. _You are the last person in the world I want to be around right now. So will you kindly step off?"

"Oh." Hurt and embarrassment flickered across her face. "I just thought that since Kurt was..." She stopped, and now gathered her dignity back around her. "You know what, that's fine. You're not exactly my first choice for company, either. Believe me, I would trade you in for Finn in a heartbeat... or just about anyone else, to be honest. So if that's the way you feel, I'll stop trying, because I'm not entirely convinced you're worth the effort."

Santana watched her go back into the living room, already experiencing vague pangs of guilt mixed with the conviction that she'd made a huge mistake... but fuck that. Everything was too confusing. She couldn't worry about it right now. She forced herself to turn away, and grabbing her purse, she left the apartment.

At first she didn't have any specific plans for where she was going - she thought about dropping in at the hotel where Kurt and Blaine were, (_Surprise_!), imagining the horrified looks on their faces and their attempts to be polite - but it wasn't an idea she seriously considered. Without quite coming to an official decision, she realized that she was on her way to work. Even though she'd been given the entire weekend off when Suresh had told her he was having a new and improved speaker system installed, she figured she might as well kill a few hours there. Even if he wouldn't pay her, even if she had to sing acapella and with no amplification at all, at least it would allow her to vent some emotion. After all, performing was _sort of _like sex, right?

But a strange thing happened when she arrived at the by-now familiar location and opened the door to the club. The sound of music hit her ears, immediately. Not just any music, either. Live music. For a split second she thought she had the wrong place, that she'd turned down the wrong street or maybe even gotten off the subway at the wrong stop. But no, that was stupid. This was The Pearl, this was where she worked... it was like a second home. She could already see Keith at the bar serving drinks. And now, as she stepped further inside, and when some people passing by in front of her had cleared out of the way, she could see the stage. And she could see that there was someone on it. _There was someone on her stage._

She stared in astonishment at the strange red-headed girl singing to the attentive crowd. The song she was doing was one Santana only faintly recognized, some annoying country classic, something about walking after midnight. The patrons of the bar, many of whom Santana recognized and thought of as _her _regulars, seemed riveted by this odd and patently out-of-place performance. _Those fucking traitors. _She couldn't even begin to imagine why they were so absorbed, but after glancing from them back to the stage, she, too, found that it wasn't easy to tear her gaze away. But eventually she forced herself to do so. Because who _was _this girl? She wanted answers, right the hell now.

With a growing sense of bewilderment, she went to confront Suresh at the register. He saw her coming and seemed to experience a brief flicker of dread.

"What the hell is going on here?" she demanded. "Please tell me that some blitzed sorority girl just climbed up there and started singing, and that you've called the police to escort her ginger ass out."

"Santana, calm down," he said in a placating manner, still smiling at the customer whose credit card he was scanning. "I did not see any need to tell you yet that I hired another singer. But you should be very proud. Your own performances have proved to be so popular that the people were demanding singing every night. And since you can not be here every night, I hired Amelia to fill in. So now you can sometimes have a weekend off. See? It all worked out perfectly!"

She continued to stare at him in disbelief. "So you just made up all that crap about the speakers? How could you not tell me you were hiring someone else?"

"Oh, I am sorry. I did not realize I had to run my business decisions through my minimum-wage employee first."

Realizing that she shouldn't push it, she backed down. But the feeling of betrayal and resentment lingered as she stalked over to the bar. Keith slid her a drink without asking if she wanted one. She drank half of it in one gulp, not even caring what it was. Why was everybody out to get her? she wondered. It was like the whole world was ganging up on her at once. And could this miserable week possibly get any worse?

After a few minutes she became aware of the fact that the music had stopped, and then suddenly, as if to answer her question, there was someone standing right at her elbow. She turned her head to give her petite and apparently oblivious rival a threatening look.

But maybe not so oblivious, because the girl seemed to know who Santana was. "Hi. I'm Millie." Then, when there was no response other than a cold and cursory summing-up, she said, "You don't recognize me, do ya?"

Momentarily thrown, Santana tried to figure this out, but couldn't. "Why should I?"

"No reason, really. Just that I been here a couple times before. Used to come just to watch you sing, that's what gave me the idea about the job. You're _good_."

The accent set Santana's teeth on edge; it was mountain South, Kentucky or Tennessee, maybe West Virginia. She'd grown up just close enough to the cultural border to be able to recognize it. The sound of that accent immediately brought back her old insecurities about being gay, which in turn made her even more pissed off. She turned to the girl and took a deep breath, relishing this opportunity for a rant. It had been too long.

"You know what, Ellie May, you're right. I _am _good. I'm so good that I turned a shitty waitressing job into a headlining act, in just one day. And now for some crazy reason, you seem to be under the impression that we're going to share that act. But let's get one thing straight here... I may be Velma Kelly, but you are sure as hell _not _Roxie Hart. I mean for one thing, it looks like you're just getting used to wearing shoes for the first time. And I'm guessing that back in the trailer park in MethVille, Arkansas, or whatever hole you crawled out from, all those mouth-breathing snake-handling Nascar fans think your little cowgirl act is about the cutest thing they've ever seen. But it's not gonna fly in the big city. I see through you, and so does everyone else here. It may have _seemed _like they were into it? But I'm pretty sure they weren't enjoying your episode of Hee Haw so much as the fact that you look like a redneck Bratz doll. So if you know what's good for you, you'll pack up your banjo and fiddle and hightail it back to a gentler land where people can appreciate a singer who sounds like Dolly Parton with Stage Four throat cancer. See, I may be just an employee here? But I ownz that stage, and I _will _defend my territory, even if that means making your corn-fed little life a waking nightmare."

She stopped, pleased with herself, waiting for the reaction. But when the reaction finally came, it wasn't at all what she'd been expecting. Millie only smiled a little, with what looked like artistic appreciation. "I like you," she said in a musing way.

Stunned, Santana managed to recover quickly. "Yeah, well, I _don't _like you. And I don't think you're feeling me here, Half-Pint. We're not gonna be friends, because you're not gonna be sticking around. In case you haven't noticed, this is a sophisticated urban night club. We don't hold square dances up in here. So I figure by the time Suresh comes to his senses and the audience gets over your novelty act, you and your freaky lobster hair will be back on the ol' homestead just in time to help Ma and Pa get the crops in." She tossed back the rest of her drink, confident that she'd gotten through this time.

"So wait a minute," Millie said with ironic thoughtfulness, sidling closer to her and leaning against the bar. "I'm from a trailer park that's _also _a farm? Where do we keep the livestock?"

Santana stared at her in shock, as if she'd never met anyone who had the audacity to critique her wit. Worse, she seemed to have momentarily exhausted her stock of redneck references, which left only one option_. Lima Heights._

Apparently realizing that if he didn't do something to defuse the situation, he was going to have to leap over the bar to hold her back, Keith gave Santana a light nudge.

With evident impatience, she forced herself to turn to him. "_What_?"

"Hey, can you do me a favor? We're out of ice."

"Get it yourself, Corky," she told him, still distracted. "I'm not even working tonight."

"I can't leave the bar. That old guy who drinks right out of the beer tap is here."

Recognizing the diversion tactic for what it was, she nevertheless gave in, though not without a show of reluctance. Sighing irritably, she moved away from the bar and headed toward the back, giving Millie one last hostile glare as she passed her.

In the dim, quiet area that constituted the back rooms of the establishment, she entered the walk-in freezer and yanked the bucket off the hook by the door, then used a metal scoop to begin filling it with ice cubes from the large bin in the back. While she worked, she found herself wishing she'd just stayed home. What a worthless idea this had been. It was like she just kept stumbling from one miserable situation to another. In a way, it would have been better if she'd never found out about this new bitch at all. Maybe the two of them could have kept performing on their separate nights and she never would have been the wiser.

"So, what are you anyway?"

Startled, but refusing to show it, she turned just a little to see that the girl had actually had the nerve to follow her, and was now lurking at the door to the freezer.

"Excuse me?"

"I've been wondering for a while now." Millie came a little further in, pretending to examine the packages of frozen shrimp on a nearby shelf. "Black? Latina?" She lazily ran her hand along the shelf as she moved further in. "Indian? Middle Eastern? Native American?" She finally looked at Santana. "Tell me when I'm getting warm."

For a few seconds she was too bewildered to formulate a response to this. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

She shrugged. "I'm just curious."

"Well, don't be. Because it's none of your damn business." She slammed the lid of the freezer shut and lifted the nearly full bucket.

"It's just that I thought maybe me and you should get to know each other a little better, considering that in a few seconds you're gonna have your hand down my bloomers."

Santana blinked at her, speechless. Because now she knew for certain that she had officially and irrevocably lost her mind. It was time for the men in white coats to come and take her away. This was it, this was the pinnacle. She hadn't only imagined an entire attempted seduction by her straight roommate that hadn't actually happened, no, that wasn't bad enough - she was now hearing words, clear as a bell, that couldn't possibly have been spoken. _Holy sweet hell, what's next? _she wondered, in awe at the lengths her desperate brain was willing to go to. _Will I start hallucinating Pete climbing into the shower with me? Maybe an invitation to an orgy with Rhonda and her ferrets?_

She brought herself back to the present moment and tried to focus. "Look, Carrot Top," she said slowly, suddenly feeling exhausted. "I've had a really long day... a really long _week _actually. And I'm so not interested in boarding your hillbilly crazy train right now. So why don't you just take your rustic little- "

The words were cut off by a kiss - but not just a kiss, more of a full body collision that knocked her backwards against the metal freezer. The bucket dropped to the floor and the ice chips went skittering around her feet, and she had to put both hands behind her to brace herself against a fall, meaning that she wasn't immediately able to push the girl away. And by the time she was able to, Millie was already pulling back, a little breathless. She stared at Santana, just inches away, waiting for her to protest, maybe waiting for her to shove her backwards or wipe her mouth in disgust or run from the freezer. Santana did none of these things. She just stared back. A smug and yet somehow relieved expression touched Millie's face. "I thought so," she murmured. Then she pulled the door closed.

After that point, everything was a little bit of a blur. Not just later, when she tried to figure out exactly how it had happened, but even _while _it was happening. It went fast, she knew that much. It was aggressive, on both their parts; almost violent. The next day she would discover more than one bruise on areas of her body that had never had bruises before. She kept her eyes closed throughout most of it, absorbing the two conflicting sensations of hot skin against her own (_finally oh God finally_) and the searing icy coldness of the floor and walls of the freezer. With her eyes closed, it could have been anybody she was allowing to do these things to her, anybody she was doing these things _to_. But who did she want it to be? This girl she'd met only ten minutes ago, and probably even now couldn't have identified from a police line-up? Rachel? Brittany? Some weird combination of the three of them? But no, not Brittany. Never Brittany. Not like this. When that image threatened to swim into her mind, she pushed it away, desperately. It was like bringing something sacred into a brothel.

It all went by in a blinding flash, an explosion of pure unadulterated release. In the space of ten minutes she came four times, which would have been embarrassing, perhaps, if it wasn't for the fact that Millie seemed to keep pace, and maybe even to bypass her toward the very end (though she wasn't certain, since by that point it was getting hard to keep track). When it was over, when they collapsed onto the floor next to each other, drained, depleted of energy and lust, taking ragged gulps of cold air, and Santana had the sudden stark realization of what she'd just done, she felt for one horrified second that she was going to cry. So instead she channeled the rising impulse into another direction, and laughed instead. She laughed so hard that the frigid air burned her lungs, because this really had to be the most fucking ridiculous thing that had ever happened to anyone, ever. And then Millie started laughing too. And then Keith opened the door to find out what was taking so long, slipped on the spilled ice, apologized, backed out with a red face and a promise that he wouldn't tell anyone (while covering his erection), and when he was gone they laughed even harder, until they each noticed the other's lips were getting blue and that they were in danger of hypothermia.

Finally they sobered up and began getting dressed, and when Santana noticed her phone was missing, she looked around to find that Millie had it. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm puttin' my number in here."

"Um... that's okay. I don't need it." Feeling like she wasn't making a good argument while she was still in just her bra, she tugged her shirt over her head. "This was fun, but... it can't happen again."

Seeming unbothered, Millie just continued what she was doing. "Okay," she said. "But just in case." She smiled as she handed the phone back to her.

When they came out of the freezer, they found that Suresh was lurking around. "Break time is over," he told Millie sternly.

"I know it, sir," she said in an earnest tone. "I just went to get cooled down for a minute, and that freezer door done locked behind me. Y'all oughtta have that looked at, because if it weren't for this one here," she indicated Santana, "I might have died in there." She walked back toward the front of the establishment, exuding martyred innocence. Suresh watched her go and then continued to look at Santana for a few seconds, suspicious. She cleared her throat and stared at the floor. When he finally moved off to his office she was able to make her relieved exit.

She went straight back to Brooklyn, back home, because her reasons for leaving to begin with now seemed cloudy and obscured in her memory, like something that had happened months ago rather than just a few hours. And indeed, even when she got back into the apartment and shut the door behind her, when she paused in the living room entry and saw that Rachel had fallen asleep on the couch in the dim blue glow of the DVD player's screen saver, she still couldn't quite remember what the fuss had been about. Because it was gone, thank God. Whatever weirdness had been there, whatever it was that had been coloring her perceptions all week, making her think crazy and terrifying things - it had completely and totally vanished. The girl sprawled asleep on the arm rest was just Rachel Berry, the annoying and desperate-for-affection girl from glee club who was now, like it or not, a permanent part of her post high-school life. Just another girl who missed home and her boyfriend and who was having a harder time adjusting to the city than she'd expected. That was all. There was nothing scary there, nothing dangerous. And Santana prayed that whatever had made her see her in that way would never, ever come back.

She came tentatively into the room, recalling her harsh words from earlier and regretting them, which she didn't often do. Instead of going straight to bed, she went and sat on the couch. When nothing happened, she stood up and then sat down again, more heavily this time.

Rachel stirred, then woke up. Disoriented at first, she sat up after a second. In a quiet, still sleep-bleary voice, she said, "I'm glad you're back. I had a dream someone stole your organs and left you for dead in an alley." Off of Santana's mystified face, she added in explanation, "My dreams tend to be on the melodramatic side."

"Listen." Santana shook off the disturbing image and sighed, facing the blank TV. God, she hated apologizing. "I just wanted to say sorry about before. It's nothing personal, I just needed to get out for a while."

"It's okay. I understand." Honesty seemed to compel her to add, "Even though what I said was true. I _would _trade you for Finn."

"It's cool," Santana said. "I'd trade you for Brittany."

They glanced at each other, in amused shared acknowledgement of their selfishness.

Rachel took a deep breath and then spoke quietly, staring down at her hands. "I know I can't replace her, for... various reasons," she added, choosing not to elaborate. "But if you let me, I think I can be a really good friend." Then she amended this to, "I _know _I can."

Santana was silent, feeling awkward.

"Anyway," Rachel said. "Goodnight." She stood and started toward the door.

"Yeah, well, I'm not even tired," Santana said, sounding casual. "So I'm gonna go ahead and watch the stupid movie, if you want to stick around."

She turned back, hesitant. "Are you sure?"

Santana shrugged, refusing to make eye contact. "Whatever. Do what you want, I don't care."

Rachel smiled, taking this for the closest thing to an invitation she was going to get. "I'll make some popcorn."

And so _that _was settled, at least. It was one problem she could check off the list, if she'd had a list. It didn't solve everything, but it helped. And it couldn't have happened at a better time, because when Kurt came home the next morning, much earlier than they'd expected him, it was clear by his expression and by the way he stood facing blankly into the room like a sleepwalker that something had gone horribly wrong. They both went to him, concerned, but it was impossible to get many details out of him. One point was clear, though - things with Blaine were over. Suddenly, shockingly over.

During the next few days, they babied him a bit, trying to do everything they could think of to make him feel better, which included but wasn't limited to watching the _Buffy _musical eleven times and playing a new game they'd invented called _Drag Queen or Donatella Versace? _At first he welcomed it, then he tolerated it, then he told them he would be fine and to stop worrying. In a weird way, and even though she knew it was terrible that she was benefiting from someone else's pain, Santana appreciated the distraction. It meant she didn't have to think about what had happened at work on Saturday night, or deal with the stabs of guilt that hit her every time she let her mind wander in that direction. She'd been keeping her correspondence with Brittany light and vague, mostly texting. And it wasn't just what she'd done that was making her avoid it; what had happened with Kurt and Blaine was also cause for unease. It proved that no one was safe, that maybe none of their relationships would make it through this separation intact.

Eventually she knew she was overdue for a longer phone call and that she couldn't put it off any longer, so after classes on Wednesday, she closed herself in her room. She didn't have any immediate plans to tell Brittany what had happened with Millie, because already, she was beginning to convince herself that it hadn't really happened at all. It had been so fast, so meaningless - surely there must be some kind of rule that if sex took less than fifteen minutes, it didn't count? Even the kind over the phone meant more than that. She was determined to prove that to herself and to Brittany, right now. Now that a few days had passed, she was starting to feel a little antsy again, anyway. It was the perfect time for a little long-distance loving.

Brittany answered with a bright, "Hey! What's up?"

"Hey, you," Santana said. "I just really needed to hear your voice."

"Do you want me to sing or something?" she offered. "My solo in glee club got cut today because Mr. Schue said that using an Ashlee Simpson song for the Misunderstood Genius theme was stretching the rules too much."

"Maybe later," she said, smiling. "I thought we could just talk." Putting a bit of smolder into her tone, she added, "Actually... if you feel up to it, maybe we could try that whole phone sex thing again? I think we're getting better at it."

"Oh," Brittany said. "Um... Right now? Hold on just a second."

In the background, Santana heard muted, muffled voices, and then what sounded like a door shutting.

"Sorry," Brittany said, coming back on the line. "Okay, I'm alone now. I went in the bathroom."

"What's going on? Are you busy?"

There was just the briefest pause before she replied. "Mike's over here, helping me with geometry. You remember I told you about his leg? He's letting me bedazzle his cast and draw rainbows on it."

"Oh," Santana said in a flat tone. Then she forced herself to add, "That's nice of him."

"But it's okay, I can be quiet, if you still want to..."

"No," she interrupted, feeling awkward. "Don't worry about it. It was just an idea. Your geometry's more important."

"Santana," Brittany said softly. "You remember what we talked about, right? How I don't mind if you- "

"Yeah," she cut her off, even more uncomfortable now, in light of what had recently happened. "Yeah, I remember. You don't have to say it again."

"Okay." Brittany sounded sad, but determined. There was a pause. "I just wanted to make sure. Since it may be a while before we can see each other."

Even though she already knew this, it was still hard to hear the words. But for some perverse reason, she felt the need to push it just a little further. It was like pressing on a bruise to see how sore it was. "Yeah, I know. Maybe we shouldn't keep doing that stuff over the phone, anyway," she said. "I mean, since we're not technically... _together_, right now. We should both be free to try other fruit, right?"

She waited for the response, practically holding her breath. What exactly was she hoping to hear? A contradiction? A request for a more specific definition of what _together _meant? A denial that that conversation on the bleachers had ever happened?

But when the reply finally came, it was only a quiet, almost disappointed, "Oh." And then, "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Maybe you're right." Another pause. "Should I not send any more of those pictures, then?"

Santana swallowed hard and closed her eyes, waiting until she was positive her voice wouldn't shake before she answered. "Probably not. For now, anyway."

"Okay," Brittany said. "I get it."

Then there was silence while they both seemed to wait for the other to say something that would make this whole thing hurt less than it did. But apparently there were no words for that, or at least none that either of them could come up with.

Finally, Santana forced her voice to return to normal. "Anyway. I should probably let you get back to your homework. Um... tell Mike I said hi."

"I will. Santana?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She waited a second before she could answer. "I love you too."

When she hung up, she sat there for a while. Then she picked up the phone again with a sense of resolve and scrolled through to the number that had just recently been added. She hesitated, holding her finger over the button, and then pushed it. When the still-unfamiliar voice answered, she said, "You working tonight?"

It turned out the answer was yes, as she'd expected, since she herself had the night off. So she timed her arrival for break time, waited in the back, and then tugged Millie into the walk-in freezer. It went much as it had on Saturday, with maybe slightly less violence, and without the ice chips on the floor.

The next night, when Santana was on the schedule, she received a cryptic yet easily decipherable text just as she stepped down from the stage for her own break. "It's cold in here." She hesitated, then headed toward the back.

After that, it became a pattern. Every night, depending on which was working, the other would wait near the freezer (or in it, if someone was snooping around). It was an ideal arrangement, in Santana's opinion. There was no messy romantic stuff, hardly any talking, no time for post-coital cuddling - and even if there had been time, the discomfort of the location itself urged them to get out as soon as possible. She would have been more than happy to keep it up permanently. After all, she didn't even have the burden of guilt, since her recent conversation with Brittany had confirmed to her that she wasn't doing anything wrong. And rather than lie to Kurt and Rachel about why she was now mysteriously leaving the apartment for exactly one hour on the nights she didn't work, she was honest and told them what was going on. To her surprise, they seemed to understand and support the decision, and even said they'd like to meet Amelia. (Santana vowed to herself, privately, that this was never going to happen.)

It seemed like it couldn't be a more perfect arrangement, considering what she wanted from it. So she was less than thrilled when after about a week of their efficient and satisfactory meetings in the freezer, Millie said, while pulling her jeans back on, "I'm not sure we do this anymore."

"Oh," Santana said, trying not to sound disappointed. "Yeah, whatever. That's fine. I was thinking the same thing."

"No," she corrected herself. "I don't mean _this_. I just mean... in here. I think I'm startin' to get frostbite. Why don't we have dinner or something, after you get off work tomorrow?"

Santana turned away, pretending to busy herself with her knee-high socks. "I don't know."

"Come on. I'll pay," she offered.

Before she could refuse, Keith tapped on the freezer door and informed Millie that her break was over and Suresh was looking for her.

"_Shit_," she said, hurriedly buttoning her shirt. "So, it's a date? I'll meet you out front after your set." She disappeared without waiting for an answer, and Santana had her first inkling that she'd set something in motion that was eventually going to get out of her control.

The next day, she considered texting her and telling her no. She considered calling in sick to work. A dozen other potential excuses vied for attention in her distracted mind. But even if she used one, she couldn't avoid her forever. Better to just do it in person and get it over with.

But for some reason, when she was done with her set and found Millie hanging out near the bar, she didn't refuse the drink that was waiting for her. She didn't resist when she was led to a restaurant - nice, but nothing fancy - just down the street. She even found herself enjoying the meal, and to her shock, enjoying the bizarre and colorful phrases, the ridiculously implausible stories, that came from this girl's mouth. When she came back from the bathroom and caught herself examining Millie from across the room in the dim light of the restaurant, noting how pretty she actually was, how her heavy eye makeup contrasted with the freckles which she made no attempt to cover up, but which instead she seemed to highlight on purpose to help her project a certain image - when she caught herself doing that, Santana had a brief flash of alarm, and when she sat back down she was determined that this couldn't go any further.

As expected, when the meal was over, Millie reached across the table and placed her hand over hers. "I just live a few minutes away, in Harlem. I know, ironic, right? I bet I'm the whitest person you ever met."

Santana pulled her hand away. "This was nice," she said. "But I've got this horrible headache, and I've got to get up early in the morning. I should probably just go."

"You got a headache?" Millie dug through her purse and produced two suspiciously large white pills, obviously prescription-strength painkillers. "Here."

Examining them, Santana said, "It's a headache, not a tumor."

She smiled. "Just take 'em. You won't regret it, I swear."

She hesitated, sighed, and swallowed the pills. If nothing else, they would make the inevitable awkwardness that was coming up easier to bear. Because this had to end, now.

But by the time they'd finished their dessert and were back out on the sidewalk, she'd already started to feel a euphoric sense of contentment, of peace, a sense of _What does it really matter? _The freezer, or a bed in an apartment... what difference did it make? Sex was sex. And she couldn't lie to herself. The sex was worth it. So she went home with her. This time, it took longer than fifteen minutes, much longer. She drifted through it, somehow distant from her body while at the same time more intimately connected to it than ever. But even with this drug-assisted serenity, she pulled herself out of the bed soon after they'd collapsed in limp exhaustion, barely waiting for the aftershocks to be over. There were some things she just couldn't do, no matter how peaceful she felt.

Before she left, Millie wordlessly handed her two more of the glorious white pills, smiling as if it was all part and parcel of the sexual encounter. And lest the perfect tranquility she felt right now become marred by any unpleasant thoughts or regrets, she swallowed these, too. By the time she'd arrived back home, she was floating; physically satiated, calm, and for the moment really, truly happy. Not just happy, exhilarated - if exhilaration could be said to accompany the slowed-down, gauzy reality she felt wrapping its warm arms around her. She drifted through the apartment, high as a kite, smiling and humming to herself. In the kitchen, she found the window to the balcony open. Kurt and Rachel were sitting outside.

"Hey, guys," she said brightly, poking her head out.

Kurt cast her an immediate suspicious glance, but Rachel only responded with enthusiasm. "Oh, hi! Did you have a nice night?"

"It was so, so nice. It was amazing." The fire escape was really only big enough for two people, but she squeezed between them anyway, sinking down and leaning backwards against the railing, facing them. She noticed they were both holding bottles.

"What is _this_?" she asked in an exaggerated way, like a babysitter proud of her charges. "Are we drinking _beer _tonight?"

"Oh... yeah, we are," Rachel said, a little confused. "We just felt like something different."

"And right out of the bottle, too. That is so cute and bohemian of you," Santana said, smiling at them.

"Do you want one?" Kurt asked, eyeing her strangely.

"Sure." She continued to grin at him as he passed her a bottle. She settled back against the balcony, relaxing. "I love when the three of us just hang out like this, don't you? It's like we're sister-wives, only without a husband or those fugly Mormon dresses."

"Santana, are you feeling okay?" Rachel ventured, finally noticing the weirdness.

"I am feeling incredible," she enthused. "No, scratch that, I'm feeling _stellar_," she said. "Isn't that a cool word, stellar? I should use it more often. We all should." Her gaze became hazy as she stared into space, contemplating this profound wisdom.

Kurt and Rachel exchanged confused, mildly troubled glances with each other, but Santana didn't seem to notice. A new thought had struck her.

"Oh my God, you guys, I just had the most perfect fucking idea I've ever had in my life. We should get matching tattoos! Like right now, tonight. How amazing would that be? Right?"

She grew more passionate as she warmed to the subject, gesturing with her hands. "No, seriously, hold up, I even know what we should get. We should get _pigeon _tattoos, because number one..." she held up a finger. "They're like the symbol of New York. And number two..." At this, she very carefully held up a second finger and squinted at them, making sure it was the right amount of fingers. "They mate for life. Wouldn't that be super adorable of us? If we all had matching pigeon tattoos that we could show off next time we go home? Not to mention," she added, poking Rachel's shoe, "they have personal significance, because remember the time that one pooped in my hair outside the diner and I started crying and you both thought it was hilarious?" She leaned forward, emphatic. "Oh my God, we have to do it, we have to get tattoos. Come on!" Setting the beer down, she grasped their arms and stood, making a futile effort to pull them to their feet, still smiling. "Let's go, you goobers, right now. Get up! Let's go!"

They both remained where they were, staring up at her for a long moment of open-mouthed shock and bewilderment. Neither seemed capable of forming speech.

"All right, that's it, _what _is going on?" Kurt finally demanded. "Who are you, and what have you done with Santana Lopez?"

"Something's wrong," Rachel agreed in a worried mutter. "Something's definitely wrong. It's like she's been body-snatched."

"_Nothing's _wrong," she protested. "Can't I just be excited about getting a permanent symbol on my body to represent _mis dos mejores amigos_?"

"And now she's using Spanish in a non-rage context," Kurt said, looking increasingly concerned. "I think she took something."

Rachel gasped, standing up. "She did! She took something, look at her pupils, Kurt."

Now he stood too. "Santana, what did you take? Tell us what you took!"

"Calm down, McGruff the Crime Dog, I didn't take anything," she said soothingly, patting him on the head. "I'm just high on life." She waited a few seconds, then conceded with a shrug, "And Vicodin. Mostly Vicodin."

"I knew it!" Rachel said, looking offended. "I knew you couldn't possibly be this nice to us without the influence of some kind of illegal substance."

"It's not illegal, it's prescription." she argued, but without losing the smile. "Just not _my _prescription." She stared at Rachel thoughtfully. "I never noticed you had dimples." She reached out in slow motion to touch one, but Rachel pushed her hand away, unamused.

"Santana," Kurt said tentatively, "I know you probably don't want to hear this, but if you have to get yourself drugged up just to be with someone, maybe she's not the right person for you?"

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt," she sighed, shaking her head. "By the way, I've always wanted to ask, is that short for something?" She grabbed her beer again and took a swig, then said musingly, "Kurtwell? Kurtson? Kurtifer?" She giggled, tilting her head back a little and repeating quietly, for her own amusement, "_Kurtifer_."

He looked at Rachel, murmuring, "I hate to say it, but I'm starting to like this version of her." Rachel crossed her arms at him, disapproving.

"You know what, of course Amelia's not the right person," Santana went on, seeming unbothered. "She's a pineapple, she's not a strawberry. So it doesn't matter." She tried to explain. "See, you've got your strawberries, and then you've got your pineapples, and then there's... also some other fruit... I think. I don't know, I can't remember all the details. But do you see what I'm saying?"

"No," Kurt said. "Not really."

"Well, that's because Brittany's a genius, and not everyone can understand her. The point is, I feel fantastic, so don't trouble your perfectly-styled little head about it, okay?" She gave him a pleasant look, then her gaze became more searching. "Speaking of that... I have to say, Kurt, in this light? You are _weirdly _attractive to me right now."

Ignoring his discomfort, she went on, stepping closer. "Has anyone ever told you that you're actually kind of pretty? You have the greatest bone structure I've ever seen, I would _kill _for it. Not to mention the fact that you're getting super buff these days." She reached out and squeezed his bicep. "I mean, it's true, I'm not personally interested in firing the man cannon myself anymore. But I'm not gonna lie, if I didn't already know about the twig and berries you were hiding below decks? I might be a little tempted."

"Oh dear God," he said, profoundly disturbed. He backed away from her. "I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here, right now."

"What? Why?" Rachel asked, not wanting him to go.

"Because," he said, climbing back into the kitchen. "When she comes to her senses and realizes what she just said, my life will be in danger."

Santana watched him go with a look of affection. "He is so funny. Don't you think he's just so funny?" She paused, as if she'd forgotten what she was saying. "Hey, do you want to make cupcakes?"

Rachel gave a weary sigh, obviously disappointed in her. "Santana, why would you do this? You don't need that stuff, and it's so, so addictive. Your dad's a doctor, you _know _that." She hesitated, then added, "Look, I didn't want to be the one to say it, but I'm starting to think this Amelia girl may be really bad news."

"Whatever." Santana rolled her eyes for form's sake, even though she wasn't capable of any real bitterness at the moment. "You're just jealous because I feel awesome, and you don't."

"Yes, well, however awesome you feel right now? That's how crappy you're gonna feel when you wake up in the morning. Trust me."

"Oh right, I forgot about Rachel Berry's extensive drug use experience. You know what, if all you're gonna do is harsh my buzz, Eeyore, then I wish you would just go away. The adorable rain cloud over your head is getting me all wet." Then, listening to her own words, she dissolved into more self-induced amusement. "Did you hear what I just said? _Waaanky_."

"Fine," Rachel said, ignoring the last part. "I'm going to bed. But only if you come inside too. I don't want to worry about you trying to fly."

She rolled her eyes again with amused tolerance, but let herself be pulled through the window and back into the kitchen. She didn't think she was _that _high, but maybe it was better to be on the safe side.

Once inside, still giggling at nothing in particular, she slumped down against the wall, because her legs all of a sudden didn't seem too keen on holding her up. Rachel closed the window and locked it for good measure, then turned to leave, but Santana stopped her.

"Wait."

She turned back, impatient.

"Before you go, I have to ask you a really important question."

Rachel seemed vaguely worried, but she waited. "Okay."

Santana paused for a second, holding eye contact, and in the most serious, sober voice she could manage, she asked, "Do you think Quinn is hotter than me?"

Confusion registered first, but then turned quickly to annoyance. Closing her eyes for a second, Rachel shook her head, brushing the question off. Her only response as she turned to leave was a stern, "Santana, _go to bed_."

She watched her leave the room, but couldn't help calling out a few seconds later, "I'm gonna take that as a no!"

All alone, she'd let her eyes roam around the darkened kitchen. "I miss Mercedes," she muttered to herself in a forlorn voice. "I bet she would get a tattoo with me. _And _make cupcakes." She got out her phone to call her, but the mixture of the alcohol and pills was now making her vision a bit fuzzy, so instead of dialing she slumped over sideways and went to sleep on the kitchen floor.

The next morning, she awoke on the cold tile with aching muscles and a stiff neck, not to mention a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like poison. Dragging herself up, she wiped dried saliva (or was it beer?) off the side of her face. Arms wrapped around herself, she staggered toward her room, hoping to get there without being noticed. There was nothing she hated more than Rachel being proved right when she was in one of her prissy moralizing moods.

No such luck, however. But thankfully, it was only Kurt she encountered. He was in the hallway, just coming out of his bedroom. He froze. She stopped too, giving him a strange look, trying to remember something that was just on the verge of coming to her. Something related to him, something about last night... what was it? He waited, looking worried. Then her expression changed as realization dawned on her. "Oh God," she said, horrified.

"You see?" He pointed at her for emphasis. "This is exactly what I was afraid of!" Ducking nervously past her into the bathroom, he slammed the door behind him and locked it for safety.

From that point on, she was careful not to take too many of the pills, and she tried to make sure that the worst of the effects had worn off by the time she got home. Because the fact was, she now expected them, craved them, every time she and Millie had a... well, _date _seemed too classy of a word for their mostly-sex encounters. But she supposed that was technically what they were. She convinced herself the pills were just a fun side-effect of the... again, _relationship _wasn't quite the right term. But whatever it was they had going on between them, it was absolutely better with a little chemical euphoria helping Santana keep her mind and body firmly in the present moment. It was like Millie herself was a part of the drug, or it was a part of her. They came together in one package, and as long as they were mixed together in the perfect combination, without overdosing on either, they complemented each other to perfection.

But even though she was careful to conceal the effects from the gay Bobbsey Twins, somehow, they still knew, and she could tell they still judged her for it. Or maybe it wasn't judgment, exactly. Maybe they were just worried. In any case, she didn't want to deal with it, and she was grateful that they seemed to have agreed between themselves that they wouldn't mention it to her again. She was fairly certain that unless things took a major turn for the worse, she didn't have any reason to fear an intervention in the near future. And she knew they wouldn't say anything about it to Brittany, so on that score at least, she was safe.

Regarding Brittany, she'd tried to walk a fine line between being totally upfront and keeping everything hidden. She'd told her in a vague way that she was "hanging out" a lot with a girl from work, a girl who, in a strange coincidence, also happened to be gay. Brittany had seemed glad, genuinely glad, to hear it, and Santana didn't know exactly how to interpret this. She _did _know how to interpret her own feelings about the fact that Brittany was also, it seemed, "hanging out" with Mike quite a bit during his enforced exile in Lima. But since it was easier not to think about it, she tried to keep herself occupied with other things.

And for the time being, there were plenty of things to keep her occupied. Fall had arrived in New York, at long last. (The air conditioning unit in the apartment had finally been replaced, on the very same day that the temperatures plunged and it became jacket weather.) With the heat broken, they were all able to get out and see more of the city. Millie, who had lived here for a year now and was therefore something of an expert in Santana's view, was keen to show her around. She even wanted to meet "the roomies," as she referred to the mysterious theater geeks she'd often heard about but never seen. Against her better inclinations, Santana had reluctantly agreed, and they'd settled on a picnic in Central Park for a beautiful Saturday in mid-October.

It had started out promisingly. Everyone was introduced, everyone seemed to like each other. But within ten minutes, it was all sliding downhill, and Santana knew there was nothing she could do to stop it. Millie had turned on her subtle mocking demeanor almost immediately, trying to enlist Santana in the fun, an invitation she pretended not to notice. It just felt all wrong. So Millie pressed on by herself, playing with the two of them like a cat with a mouse. At first, they didn't seem to notice that she was making fun of them. But eventually, even their giant egos caught on. Kurt realized that she wasn't actually fascinated by the pros and cons of cashmere versus angora scarves, and Rachel finally came to understand that her over-the-top love for Fiddler on the Roof wasn't genuine. Santana could see their disappointment, then their disgust. She could see Millie's amusement at being discovered, and her twisted joy in knowing they would be too polite to call her out. Watching it all unfold in front of her, Santana was tense and miserable, counting the minutes until they could all accept failure and call it a day.

Thank God, an unexpected rain shower finally put an end to the ordeal. "Oh my sweet Lord, they're awful," Millie said, after waving goodbye. "Those are your _friends_? Oh, honey," she said in a pitying way. "You got to meet some new people."

Santana couldn't help feeling defensive. "They're not that bad," she said. "They just take some getting used to." She considered, then added truthfully, "Like three years or so."

And when she'd arrived back home in Brooklyn, the reaction hadn't been much more positive. They'd tried, though. She had to give them credit for that.

"She's... very pretty," Rachel said, making an effort to focus on the positive. "And I love her accent."

"Great fashion sense," Kurt added, with a strained smile. "I'm a big fan of the urban Southern-belle chic. She's like a modern-day Reese Witherspoon." He thought about this. "Except that... well, Reese Witherspoon _is _the modern-day Reese Witherspoon."

"You don't like her, I get it," Santana said, fed up with the pretense. "It's no big deal. She doesn't like you either. So the whole thing was a big fucking waste of time."

They glanced at each other, feeling bad. Rachel hesitated, then said, "I guess we just... thought she'd be more like Brittany."

"There _is _nobody else like Brittany," Santana told them, leaving the room.

But as she found out over the course of that fall, as the leaves flared into color and then swept down in cinematic gusts to dance around people's feet on the sidewalks, there was really no one like Millie, either. Or at least nobody that she'd ever met. And she gradually came to believe that this was a good thing. The girl was flat-out messed up, in more ways than one. To start with, she was a chain smoker. At first it had seemed a bit sexy, that dangerous and somehow provocative scent of cigarettes that clung to her. It was the scent of fun, nonconformist people, of people who didn't give a shit and lived each day as if it were their last. But after a while it came to seem less sexy and fun and more sordid and sad.

Because it wasn't just the cigarettes. She also drank too much, and other than her favorite mint julep (for "nostalgic reasons" she claimed), she avoided cocktails in favor of hard liquor straight from the bottle. It didn't even matter what kind, as long as it was more than seventy proof. Though it was sort of funny to see an adorable twenty-one year old girl slugging bourbon out of a brown-bagged bottle like a homeless guy on the street, it was a little scary too. And of course there was the matter of the pills, which Santana preferred not to look too deeply into, since she was also benefiting from their plentiful supply. She didn't know exactly where they came from, but she suspected they'd changed hands quite a few times since leaving the pharmacy.

Whether it was the influence of the pills or the alcohol, or whether it was just her personality, there were other troubling aspects of Millie's behavior. Like the way she lied casually about unimportant things, and apparently for no other reason than to stay in practice. When she was caught in one ("Why would you tell me you're allergic to nuts when I saw you eat a Snickers bar last week?" Santana asked, baffled), she only acted delighted, as if she'd played a fun trick and everyone should enjoy it as much as she did. She was also a chronic snoop, and Santana soon discovered that she should bring as little as possible with her to their meetings. After making the mistake of falling asleep for the first time after sex, she'd awakened to find the contents of her purse strewn about on the bed, and Millie fiddling with her iPod.

"What the hell are you doing?" Santana demanded.

"I knew it," she said, scrolling through the songs. She seemed amused about something. "Miranda Lambert, the Dixie Chicks..." Now she looked up at Santana with an ironic, pitying expression. "_Taylor Swift_?"

"Give me that," Santana said, snatching the device out of her hands. In a self-conscious voice, she muttered, "It was for research."

Even more disturbing than the snooping was the dangerous, slightly volatile edge to Millie's version of fun. She mailed unmarked envelopes filled with talcum powder to people who had pissed her off in the past, "just to keep 'em on their toes," she explained. She liked to go to fancy boutiques, spend hours trying on clothes and running up the expectations of the salesgirls and managers, and then leave without, of course, buying a thing. She would log on to medical internet sites and give people horrible advice in response to their embarrassed, clueless questions, pretending to be an expert. "Yes," she told a harried fourteen-year-old girl worried that her period hadn't started yet. "I'm a doctor, and it does sound like there's something very wrong. I'm guessing you were probably born a hermaphrodite, and your parents have been lying to you about it all these years. Try sticking a flashlight up there to see if you can spot a cervix. Hope this helps!"

At first, it all seemed funny, like free live entertainment. At the same time, though, there was something unnerving about it. But Santana told herself she didn't really care. It didn't matter, after all. The girl could have been the spawn of Satan for all the difference it made to her. She had no personal attachment to her, no emotional investment. She was in this for the sex, and only the sex. Everything else was irrelevant. And she was perfectly confident that Millie felt the same way.

But in spite of herself, sometimes she found aspects of her new friend's personality a bit hard to take. Like her penchant for over the top and patently phony compliments to people who usually didn't see them for what they were. Santana found herself trying not to cringe in discomfort while listening to her fawn over a sad old woman's ridiculous costume jewelry, telling her how authentic it looked. And she could barely restrain her disgust at Millie assuring a deranged, homophobic street preacher that his rantings had really given her a whole lot to think about, and that she was going to go right home and haul that old dusty Bible out.

"Why do you do that?" she'd asked her afterward. "Why do you lie to people like that? If someone pisses me off, I just say it."

"I can't be like you, shortcake," she told her. "I need people to like me. I have an image I have to cultivate if I'm gonna make it. Have you ever heard of a bitchy lesbian country singer?"

"I've never even heard of a _lesbian _country singer."

"Exactly." Millie looked at her as if she'd proved her point.

And that was another sticky issue. Millie wasn't out. At least not in any official sense, and especially not to her family. In the very beginning, Santana hadn't given it much thought one way or another. She was only recently out herself, so it wasn't like she couldn't sympathize. What difference did it make to her? The girl was gay to the very core, and no one knew it better. How she presented herself to the world was her business. If anything, the fact that she wasn't comfortable with public affection worked out in Santana's favor. She wasn't comfortable with it either, but for an entirely different reason. And that reason, of course, was the one word, the one name, that she wouldn't ever allow herself to speak in Millie's presence. _Brittany_.

Keeping her feelings separate had been easy to begin with, once she'd gotten over that initial guilt following the first time. There wasn't anything complicated about it. It was meaningless sex, simply a way to pass the time until her real life picked back up again next semester. And the truth was, there was something a bit exciting, a bit freeing, in sex that wasn't connected to any emotions. She couldn't deny that in a physical sense, it was electrifying. Millie was two years older, and to say she was a good teacher would have been putting it mildly. Plus, she was so different than Brittany, in so many ways, and that made it all easier. She moved differently, she had her own rhythms, her own preferences. She was a different shape, a different size, a different scent. It was strange, getting to know the body of someone so new, after only being with one girl in her whole life. Strange, and sometimes frightening. But the ever-present painkillers induced a calming bliss that allowed Santana to relax and accept whatever happened without shame, without self-consciousness - and yet somehow, thank goodness, they managed not to dull the sharpness of the pleasure.

But still, there were times when the curtain seemed to part for just a second, and she would be hit with the gutwrenching sensation that this was all wrong, this was the wrong person, that it was all a bad dream she would wake up from soon. When that happened she would close her eyes tight and try to shut her mind down, reducing herself to nothing but a body. Even more dangerous than those moments, though, were the ones right after the sex, when desire had been temporarily quelled. She made it a habit to get dressed as soon as her heart rate had slowed, as soon as she had the strength to sit up. There was going to be no cuddling in these encounters, no affectionate caresses, no unnecessary touching or pillow talk. Millie didn't seem to mind, or if she did, she didn't remark on it. She would simply light a cigarette, watching Santana from the bed in lazy curiosity while she hastily pulled her clothes on, telling her, "Don't be a stranger," as she headed toward the door.

Santana managed to hold herself back in other ways, too. She tried to limit the kissing as much as possible. Kissing was too hard to place in the realm of the purely sexual. Also, she refused to use the name Millie. She stuck to the full name, Amelia, even though no one else did and Millie said that only her parents called her that. But for some reason, it helped. It was less intimate, less familiar. And she made sure that when they got together, it was never for more than an hour. During the entire month of October, she was mostly able to keep her visits to Millie's loft (where they always went, since her roommates were never home) short and business-like. Her two worlds - the one with Kurt and Rachel in Brooklyn, which in spite of herself she was beginning to get very attached to, and the one with Millie - rarely overlapped.

But there was the other world, too... the one that she couldn't leave behind no matter where she went, the one that was with her every second, even when she did her best not to think of it. Only once had she actually mentioned Brittany, and then only when Millie was being unusually nosy and asking about her first girlfriend. Under ordinary circumstances she wouldn't have answered, but they'd been knocking back jello shots stolen from a college party in the apartment upstairs, and so she told her in a murky way about dating her best friend, leaving the impression that it had been something unserious and a long time ago.

Sometimes, though, that hidden and protected part of her life refused to stay under wraps and she failed at hiding it. Sometimes a phone call from Britt, or a glee club performance she'd watched online, or just a sudden memory sparked by something Millie had inadvertently said or done would catch her unawares, and when that happened it was almost impossible to keep her mind (or her heart) in the present moment.

"You're thinkin' about somebody else, aren't ya?" Millie said once, catching her staring with unfocused gaze at a framed photograph of Millie's horse back home in Tennessee. She'd never really noticed it before (it was one of the rare occasions when she was in her bedroom during the day), and for some reason the sight of it sparked a memory she'd nearly forgotten, of an outing during sophomore year cheerleading camp to a horseback riding facility. There hadn't been quite enough horses for everyone, and though she'd been more than happy to sit the lame thing out since she hadn't wanted to come in the first place, Brittany had convinced her that they could share, and that it would be fun. Now, years later in New York, she suddenly had a visceral recollection of how it had felt to sit in that saddle with Brittany's warm, assured body pressed up behind her, to let herself lean back against her, to feel Britt's arms locked around her waist and her breath against her ear and to know that no matter what happened, she wouldn't let her fall. They had been able to get away with that intimacy for a whole hour, out in plain view, and no one had even realized how much it meant to them to be so close to each other.

Now she forced her attention back, realizing that Millie had been watching her. "Yeah," she admitted, guilty and awkward. "I was. Sorry."

"Who is it?" She waited with open frankness, as if there was no reason they should have to pretend when it came to this stuff.

Santana took a breath, tried to think how to explain, how to put into words who Brittany really was, what she meant. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't even say her name, not here. She was afraid if she tried it she would shatter.

After a few seconds, while Millie still waited, she grew flustered and blurted out the first name that popped into her head. "It's Rachel." In retrospect, she knew this had been a terrible idea, but at the time it didn't seem to matter one way or the other.

Millie brought her hand up to her heart, in horrified pity. "Oh sweetie," she said, making a face. "I'm so sorry."

Santana shrugged, embarrassed. "Yeah. I know." Then she changed the subject. Or rather, she unhooked her bra and let her boobs change the subject.

So, in general, it was difficult but not impossible to keep her feelings for Brittany separate from whatever this thing with Millie was. As things progressed, though, it was feelings in the other direction that she began to worry about. Because there weren't supposed to be any. And there hadn't been, not to begin with. But every once in a while, increasingly as time went by, there were ominous hints that if she didn't keep a careful, watchful eye on things, it was possible that there might be. And that idea scared her more than anything else. When she caught herself studying the greenish-gray color of Millie's eyes, or laughing a little too much at something she'd said, or being a little too curious about what exactly had made her the way she was, she would panic and invent some excuse to either get straight to the sex, or if that had already been accomplished, to beat a hasty retreat.

Toward the end of October, something happened that gave her the first real warning sign that she was in over her head. It was a gray, chilly day, hinting at the colder weather just around the corner. From the minute Santana arrived at her place, Millie had been acting jumpy and distracted, claiming that she'd been up all night long painting. (In addition to her musical talent, she also thought of herself as something of an artist, and often spent hours splattering paint in angry, chaotic patterns on huge canvases positioned throughout her loft.) Santana had finally lured her away from her creations and into the bedroom, feeling a bit sleazy in her obvious impatience, but really, she didn't have all fucking night.

Even during the sex itself, though, it was clear Millie's mind was elsewhere. And when her phone rang just as Santana was beginning to get dressed, she didn't check it and toss it aside as she usually did. "I have to take this," she said, scrambling out of bed and leaving the room.

Santana had tried not to listen, she really had. But the acoustics in the cavernous loft were strange, and nothing short of sticking her fingers in her ears would have prevented her from hearing the words that drifted out of the next room.

"Hey, daddy. Thank you. Yeah, it's been a real nice day. My friends got me a cake, and we're gonna have a party later and everything."

With a slight twinge of guilt, Santana realized it must be her birthday. How the hell was she supposed to know something like that, though? Millie hadn't said anything. Trying to hurry so that she could sneak out while the phone call was still in progress, she bent down to her boots, mentally cursing the fact that she'd worn the ones that took forever to lace up.

Millie continued, obviously not knowing or caring that she was being overheard. "I miss y'all too, so much. I'm gonna try to come home soon, I am. It's just that my job at the museum is so busy right now, I hardly even have time to blink. I'm like a coon dog chasin' his tail."

Santana paused, making a confused face. _What job at the museum? _She was lying to her own parents about where she worked? Then she shook it off, bending down to her shoes again. _None of my business._

But it would have taken a nature much colder than hers not to notice the anxious, vulnerable tone in Millie's voice, a tone Santana was sure she had never heard before, and didn't feel very comfortable hearing now. There was something achingly sincere about it, and not the fake sincerity she normally used.

"No, daddy," she said, quieter now. "I told you, I don't have time for a boyfriend right now. I'm just enjoyin' being single. There's plenty of time to give you grandbabies later, I promise." This last part was said with forced charm. It was painful to listen to.

Santana finally finished lacing up her boots and reached for her purse, preparing to make a covert exit. But before she could go, she heard Millie's voice rising in strained pleading.

"No, I promise. Never again." She grew more insistent, almost frantic. "I'll never do that again. It's a sin, I _know _it is. I know how wrong it is. Please tell Mama not to worry about it. I won't let you down again."

_Oh God_, Santana thought, shutting her eyes for a second as she realized what those words meant. She felt a sudden sense of foreboding. A realization was dawning on her, a realization that she wanted nothing to do with._ She's not crazy because she's offbeat and artistic. She's crazy because she's fucked-up and damaged. _Why hadn't she noticed the signs?

When she cautiously came out of the room, Millie was standing over by the darkened window, finished with her phone call, staring out at the street below with a distant, distraught expression. Her arms were wrapped around her own too-skinny frame like she was cold. Santana waited for her to turn, to snap back into her usual demeanor, but she didn't.

"I'm going," she finally said.

Still, Millie didn't turn. "Bye," she said in a faraway voice, like she'd already forgotten there was someone here.

Santana hesitated, knowing that if she was a better person, she wouldn't leave her when she looked like that. Especially on her fucking birthday. But she wasn't that person, and this wasn't a real relationship anyway. So she left.

After that, things went back to normal for a week or so. It wasn't until Halloween that it all finally fell apart. The night had started off fine, with Millie coming by their place to put the finishing touches on her costume before they headed out to a party at an abandoned building near her neighborhood in Harlem. To Santana's embarrassment, she'd been persuaded into dressing as Betty Rubble, to complement Millie's Wilma Flintstone. ("You just know those two gals were showin' their hoo-has to each other when Fred and Barney were gone," Millie had offered as justification.) Obviously it wouldn't have been Santana's first, or even her second or third choice, but she was relieved to see that they looked pretty damn sexy when the details were complete. Rachel and Kurt were likewise getting ready to leave, for a party at the NYADA dorms. The two of them had this year opted for classy rather than campy, dressing as Audrey Hepburn and James Dean, and Santana was grudgingly forced to admit that they looked amazing.

Millie admitted it too, but in her signature sweetly poisonous way. "Y'all just look so cute, and _not _like a lesbian couple at all," she told them. To Rachel, she added, "And sugar, don't you listen to any of the haters, because if Audrey had had that nose, I'd bet my knickers she'd have been an even bigger star than she was. Heck, there mighta been a _sequel _to Breakfast at Tiffany's. Maybe... Passover at Tiffany's. So you just hold that snoot up high and let it steal the show."

Surprised at first, Rachel started to reply and then clenched her jaw, biting back the words. Kurt pulled her toward the door, in a hurry to get them both out. "Have fun at your party," he said to Santana, and she could detect the hint of blame in his voice. Watching them go, she experienced a sudden urge to just ditch Millie and tag along with them. She had a sinking feeling that the night was all downhill from this point on, and she was right.

The party they went to wasn't terrible, but it was lame in that certain way that all Halloween parties are lame. A bunch of people trying in desperation to relive childhood, to become someone else for just one night, with the assistance of alcohol as well as, at this particular party, the harder stuff. Santana never felt more Midwestern than when Millie dragged her to these hidden bohemian corners of the city. It was thrilling, in one sense, because wasn't this what she'd come to New York for? But at the same time she always felt a little wary, a little bit like a fraud. She was always conscious of the fact that deep down, no matter how much she pretended otherwise, she could never scrub Lima out of her mental landscape.

Since it was a holiday, Santana had decided to give herself a full two hours for her and Millie's "date" tonight, rather than the typical one. But even so, after about forty-five minutes of stepping over strung-out ninja turtles and vampires on the floor, of being bumped into by glassy-eyed Marilyn Monroes and Charlie Sheens, of spotting things like Marge Simpson groping Abraham Lincoln, or Dorothy of Oz making out with Alice in Wonderland (this last she watched with interest for a few minutes before moving on), she decided it was time to go.

On her way to find Millie, though, a strange thing happened. She saw Brittany.

Brittany, dressed as a mermaid, with a beautiful bright pink bodice and a shimmering teal tapered skirt, ending in tiered scallops of foamy aquamarine lace to mimic waves and mask her feet. Of course it wasn't really her. It couldn't be. This anonymous blonde, up above on the second floor and leaning against a metal balcony as she talked to a group of people, clearly had to be someone else. But Santana froze, startled, and stared up at the woman's back, at the exact shape of Brittany's body, the exact easy, relaxed way she held herself, the way she gestured and leaned back a tiny bit to laugh, the exact shade of her hair. A pirate moved in front of her, blocking her view, and she pushed impatiently past him, still staring up at the balcony. Something washed over her that was a little like nostalgia, or homesickness, but much more sharp and painful than either of those. She swallowed hard and dug her nails into her palms, waiting, willing the woman to turn and show her face, but at the same time not wanting her to, not wanting her to break the spell.

Eventually, without ever turning around or looking down, the mermaid moved off into the dim reaches of the second floor, away from the railing. Santana had the craziest urge to climb the stairs, to track her down, to spin her around and make her show herself. But just in time, she realized she was being absurd, and that the last thing she needed at this point was another brush with insanity. Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, she resumed her search for Millie. Finally she found her, on a filthy couch, deep in conversation with some guy who wasn't in costume at all, unless he was impersonating a Seattle grunge rocker from the early nineties. Santana grabbed her hand and dragged her away, ignoring her protests.

They left and headed back to Millie's place to conclude the evening, like usual. Out on the sidewalk, Santana was glad to drape a dark jacket around her silly blue dress, and she pulled the bow from her hair at the earliest opportunity. On their way across the few blocks to her building, when she'd waited long enough to think Millie had forgotten, Santana finally brought herself to hint, "You have any of those pills?"

"Oh, shit... I'm all out," she said in a tone of apology. "I should get some more next week, though."

"Oh." Santana tried not to sound as disappointed as she felt. "Okay. It's no biggie." But she experienced a mild sense of panic at the idea that she was going to have to do this without their soothing influence.

"I got some other stuff though, if you're feeling a little... adventurous," Millie said coyly. She pulled a baggie out of a hidden pocket in her purse. In the glow from the streetlights, Santana could make out what looked like a hypodermic needle inside of it.

"Uh... _no_," she said, surprised. "Definitely not that adventurous." She looked around, nervous. "Would you put that away, please?"

Looking amused, Millie did as requested.

"Jesus Christ," Santana said as they started walking again. "You actually do that stuff?"

"Course not," she said, brushing it off. "It's just insulin, my ex-roommate was a diabetic. You're gullible as a guppy."

Santana didn't know whether to believe her or not. Was she lying about the small stuff, or the big stuff this time?

Back in Millie's apartment, in her bedroom, things began as they usually did - abruptly, with no real build-up. Clothes were torn off, bodies were shoved against walls, skin was groped and pinched and bitten. It was the way it had always been, and Santana had no desire for it to be anything else. But tonight, something was wrong. Their rhythm was off, and everything seemed to be happening too fast. Doing this without the pills was like coming up from underwater, being shocked at the loudness and brightness and gaudiness of the world. She felt edgy and tense, and on top of that there was the lingering strangeness of what she'd thought she'd seen at the party, like a dream you can't quite shake off in the morning. It was lurking around the edges of her perceptions, making this whole thing feel dirty and sad. She couldn't surrender her mind to her body the way she always had before. Her mind wouldn't shut off, and her body didn't seem all that into it, anyway. For the first time with a girl, she ended up faking it.

Millie didn't seem to notice, though. Because that night, of all nights, as she lit her cigarette as usual and watched Santana get dressed, she said the words that brought the entire carefully-built facade crashing down around them.

"I love you."

Santana froze as she reapplied her lipstick in the small vanity mirror, thinking she must have heard wrong, and then slowly turned around. "_What_?"

Millie shrugged a little, not wanting to repeat it, already uncomfortable. "I know. It's crazy. It's only been a month." She paused. "But there's just somethin' about you. I knew it when we first met."

Santana's mind was racing, but mostly just with the words _Oh no, oh shit, oh no no no no. _She told herself to try to stay calm. Mature. Handle it like a sophisticated adult.

But instead of doing that, she demanded, "Are you out of your mind?"

Millie just stared back, surprised into silence. Her Wilma Flintstone up-do had wilted and strands of hair hung limply around her neck, making her look even more pitiful.

"Look, these little get-togethers of ours have been fun," Santana continued, inwardly cringing at the way her own words sounded but hurtling on regardless, driven by panic. "But don't pretend this is something it's not. I thought we were pretty clear on the fact that this isn't going anywhere."

"Why would you think we were clear on that?" Millie looked genuinely bewildered. "You never said nothin' about it." She bit her lip, aware that her accent came out in full force when she was upset.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that _all we do _is have sex should have been a little clue. Or the fact that I never stay more than an hour, or that I'm not even positive I know your last name."

"I just thought we were building up to the other stuff," she said. "I thought you were scared or somethin'..." she trailed off, confused.

Santana laughed, a harsh, cutting sound. "No. We're not building up to anything, and I'm not the one who's scared. I mean, the fact is," she said, fishing around for some kind of extra justification. "You're two years older than me, and you're not even out yet. Your _family _doesn't even know. It's kind of pathetic." She saw Millie flinch a little, but she looked away, pretending not to notice.

"I thought you said you were okay with that."

"Yeah, well, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I'm not." This wasn't true, but it sounded reasonable. "I've been through it myself already, I can't go through it again with you. Maybe it would be different if I actually had feelings for you, but I don't. I love someone else." At least that part wasn't a lie, she thought. Though it didn't make her feel any less disgusted with herself.

"Oh my God," Millie said, contemptuous. "She's _straight_. And I'm the pathetic one?"

"_No_," Santana said, shaking her head, "it's not- " But she stopped herself, because at that point it didn't seem to matter who she thought it was, and it was easier than going into the truth. "It's complicated," she said instead.

"If you say so." Millie was quiet for a minute, flicking her lighter on and off, thoughtful. When she spoke her voice was flat, hopeless-sounding, as if she already knew the answer to her question. "So, what now?"

Santana forced herself to sound as cool and distanced as possible, even though her palms were sweaty. "I guess we probably shouldn't do this anymore. Any of it. Since it seems like we're not really on the same page." She waited, hoping Millie would say that she'd been joking, that they really were on the same page, that there was no reason they couldn't still keep having meaningless sex.

Instead, she said in a musing way, like she was talking to herself, "You know, folks always say those three little words can change everything, so you better be careful how you use 'em." Then she laughed a little, bitter. "I thought it was just horseshit."

"I'm sorry," Santana told her after a brief space of silence. Then, since this sounded too weak, she added with a hint of defiance, "I'm sorry you got the wrong idea. But maybe if you weren't buried so far in the closet, you'd be able to see things a little clearer."

Millie wasn't even looking at her. "Get out," she said. The words weren't spoken in anger, just weary defeat.

Santana started to say something else, but couldn't think of anything that would make this any less awful than it already was. So she grabbed her jacket and her purse and left. And until she returned on a beautiful spring afternoon in May, distraught and searching for answers, it was the last time she would visit Millie's apartment.

On her way back to Brooklyn, on the subway, she held her head high, refusing to act like a person who should be ashamed of what she'd done. Even in her own mind, she attempted to justify everything. But unlike her usual efforts, she wasn't able to convince herself. The fact was, she felt horrible. She felt like a selfish, soulless bitch, and she couldn't begin to untangle where everything had gone so wrong. Since there was probably no way to get to the bottom of that question without talking to Millie again, something she was determined to avoid if possible, she reasoned that it would be best to put it behind her and forget about it. It was over now. Soon it would all be ancient history, like it had never happened.

When she got home, weary and disenchanted, she was hoping and expecting to find the place empty. But of course not, because when had that ever worked out? Shutting the front door behind her, she could hear music coming from somewhere. Following the sound, she stepped into the living room entry and then stopped, trying to figure out what the hell she was looking at. The room was mostly dark, the only illumination coming from candles placed around the coffee table and a few other surfaces. The couch had been pushed back to make more room in the center of the floor, and in that spot was Kurt, holding his arms out, his eyes closed, seemingly dancing with an invisible partner to the slow, melancholy strains of _Unchained Melody_.

Feeling like she was intruding on a private (and very weird) moment, Santana cleared her throat to alert him to her presence.

He turned around, flustered. "Oh, Santana." He gave an embarrassed chuckle. "I, uh... I didn't think you'd be home until later." Then he looked around him, realizing he had to explain. "I guess you caught me. I was... getting my Ghost on."

"I see that." She gave him a skeptical, pitying look. "And I can appreciate the planning that went into it. But seriously, Kurt? I mean, there's pathetic, and then there's listening to _Unchained Melody_ alone on Halloween, and then _way _down below that there's slow-dancing by yourself."

"You're right." He sighed, acknowledging the truth. "I have no excuse." Then a thought occurred to him, and he asked, "I don't suppose you'd care to join me? Maybe help me climb at least a few rungs on the ladder of pathetic?"

Her gut instinct was to say no way in hell. This cheesy soulmate bonding stuff was Rachel's area, not hers. She'd already destroyed one person's perception of her tonight; did she really want to risk ruining something else? But he looked so earnest and hopeful. And if she was honest with herself, she didn't really want to be alone yet either.

As if he could sense her wavering, he pressed his advantage. "Come on," he urged her. "How often do you get the chance to dance with James Dean?"

Smiling a little, she finally gave in. There were no witnesses, at least. Nobody to make her regret it later. So, with a bit of trepidation, she went toward him and awkwardly raised her arms up. It had been a while since she'd done this. He took one of her hands in a casual ballroom-style pose, putting his other hand on the small of her back. She giggled a little, unable to help herself, but he didn't seem to mind. They started dancing, gentle and hesitant.

"Rachel's gonna kill you for using all her candles," she couldn't help telling him. "Where is the starlet, anyway?"

"She went on to another party, some theater thing," he explained. "I just wasn't feeling up to it. All those happy couples and their matching costumes. If I saw one more Kim and Kanye, I was afraid I wouldn't be responsible for my actions."

"Well, when you throw yourself a pity party, you certainly do it in style, I'll give you that," she said, glancing around the room. "I just hope you don't expect me to magically turn into Patrick Swayze, or God forbid, Blaine."

He gave a hint of a sad smile, making her wish she hadn't joked about Blaine. It was still too soon. "Only in the movies," he said softly.

The song ended and then began again, and she realized with an inward groan that he had it on repeat. But to her relief, this whole thing wasn't as uncomfortable as she'd thought it would be. Kurt's mind seemed a bit distant, anyway. Even so, it was nice to be close to someone, someone warm and familiar and comforting, someone sexually off-limits in every conceivable way. "You're actually not bad at this," she felt compelled to tell him. "For a guy."

Now he seemed wryly amused. "Why thank you. It's always nice to hear someone acknowledge that I _am _a guy." He suddenly dipped her, causing her to squeak a bit in surprise.

But she sobered up fast, the laugh dying as she straightened and clutched his leather-jacketed shoulder, recalling how it had felt to dip Brittany and kiss her after they won Nationals, when she'd been too elated to care about who was looking, and how hard it had been to get to that point. And that brought back the horrible words she'd said to Millie earlier, reminding her how much of a hypocrite she was.

Kurt studied the expression on her face from his close-up vantage point. "Rough night?"

She briefly contemplated lying, but what was the point? "We ended it." She glanced at his face and then looked away again. "_I_ ended it," she clarified. Shrugging a little, she tried to sound casual. "It had to happen sooner or later. I was just killing time."

He didn't seem to know what to say, but finally settled on, "I can't say I'm devastated. You deserve better."

"I'm not so sure about that. But I know you guys'll be glad not to see her anymore."

She was quiet for a minute. When the next words finally came, they seemed to spring out of nowhere, surprising her by their raw vulnerability. "I just miss her so much." She felt tears sting her eyes, and she looked down fast, trying to blink them away.

Kurt understood in an instant that it wasn't Millie she was talking about. "I know," he said.

The strange intimacy of the room, the darkness and flickering candles, as well as their nearness, made her keep her voice low. But there was an urgency behind it all the same. "What if she doesn't graduate this semester, Kurt? What if she doesn't get enough credits, and she has to stay all year? I don't know what I'll do."

"Don't say that," he told her. "She's working so hard, and everyone's helping her. They won't let her down again. I have it on good authority."

Santana was silent, considering. As if she couldn't help herself, she asked, "Do you think it would make me a terrible person if I tried to convince her to just drop out of that shit school, and come here?"

He thought about this as he slowly spun them in a circle, not wanting to lie to her, but clearly not wanting to be too harsh either. "Not necessarily. But I don't think you will, because that's not the Santana Lopez I know. She's stronger than that."

She took a deep, shaky breath, then let it out. _God, this fucking song_. Of all the songs in the world, why this one? It wasn't helping the direction of her thoughts one bit. Despite Kurt's confidence in her, she was afraid if she didn't control herself she would take out her phone, call Brittany, and beg, _plead _for her to drop everything and get on a plane right this second.

Just above a whisper, she confided, "I never thought it would hurt this much."

Kurt stared out at the building across the street from theirs, but as though he wasn't really seeing it, his own face shadowy with longing and regret. "I know what you mean."

For a split second she felt such a surge of affection for him that it embarrassed her, and she prayed he wouldn't notice it. Not for the first time, but still privately, as always, she thanked whatever strange power in the universe it was that had brought her here, to the apartment of these two obnoxious overdramatic preposterous freaks of nature, the last two people on earth she would have ever chosen to live with. But if it weren't for them, where the hell would she be right now?

Now she leaned her head on his shoulder, and he brought his arms up around her. Drifting through the cracked-open windows came the wail of a siren, muffled traffic sounds, the immensity of the cold city all around them. They were still dancing, though just barely, not moving much at all. But the song kept playing and the candles kept burning, and even though this whole thing was probably still _way _down on the bottom rungs of the ladder of pathetic, it was obvious that neither one of them cared anymore. All that mattered was that they were still here, that they hadn't given up, and, more than anything else, that they weren't alone.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Once again (I realize I have to say this every time) I'm so sorry for the delay! If you've checked my tumblr in the last few months you know I've had all kinds of family medical drama. Luckily things seem to be on the uphill swing for now, but it really cut into any extra time I had for writing. I had hoped to post this chapter and the last one together, or at least just a few days apart, but it's been so long I figured I'd better go ahead and add this one before people completely give up on the story.

A note about the end of this chapter - I realize that the timing isn't great for angst, given what's going on with Brittana in canon. But I really hope everyone trusts me enough to know how much I love this ship, and that you'll stick with me for one more chapter, because I promise it'll be worth it in the end. I'm not an angst whore at heart. If I had to pick a genre, I would say this story is Romantic Comedy. But even those have to have some drama at some point, right? These particular issues have been building up through the entire story, and in an unfortunate coincidence with canon, now is the time for them to come out.

But I will say that if anyone just can't stand not knowing where things are headed, you can PM me either here or on tumblr or Glee-Forum, and I'll be glad to give anyone spoilers, as vague or as specific as you want them. I realize some people just hate cliffhangers with a passion. ;)

I think there was more I wanted to say, but by this point I never can remember what it is. Just, again, thank you so SO much to everyone who reviews. (And I understand this may be too much to read all at once - I wish I wasn't so obsessive about keeping "episodes" together, but I am. Feel free to review in sections instead of all at once.) I think if I could choose to get paid for this in actual money but without any feedback, I would say no. It's so much more rewarding to hear from people who are reading. I'm about *this* close to giving up on expecting anything good from Glee, ever again. The quality of the show this season and the loss of the vibrant, colorful characters we fell in love with is breaking my heart. There's so much potential for such an insanely talented cast, and they just waste more and more of it with every episode. So this made-up New York world becomes more important to me all the time. I've already started sketching out ideas for a possible sequel.

Anyway, thank you again!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

So this was what a lesbian wedding looked like. Or at least the aftermath of one. Somehow, it wasn't quite what she'd expected. Santana looked out over the party area from her elevated vantage point on the stage, able by now to multi-task, to sing while at the same time examining the room with interest. Though, really, it wasn't all that interesting. Just a standard wedding reception - a mound of gifts in a corner, a tiered cake, tipsy people dancing, children uncomfortable in their formal-wear and secretly (or not so secretly) scratching themselves. A group of bored teenagers slouched at a table, eyes glued on their phones. A few elderly women fanned themselves and checked their watches, reminding their husbands to take their pills. In the center of it all were the two thirty-something brides, still in their dresses, oblivious to anything but each other. Santana glanced at them and found herself smiling in the middle of her Mariah Carey number. It was impossible to not be affected by their happiness. Maybe that was the most normal part of it all.

Actually, the setting itself was more notable than the party. It didn't escape her sense of irony that she was in Tribeca, the bohemian gay mecca she'd once halfheartedly dreamed of escaping to. Only there was nothing much bohemian about this new luxury high rise apartment tower. Even from where she stood on a makeshift stage set up in the back of this fiftieth floor party room, the floor to ceiling glass windows around the perimeter offered a stunning and dizzying view over the downtown area, with the entire sweep of the city visible through the north windows.

Despite the view, though, her attention kept being caught by something else, _someone _else, much closer to hand. When the current number was done, she forced her focus back to the crowd, giving a cursory, "Thank you," to the applause. She went on, according to the pre-arranged schedule. "Um, okay, right now we're gonna switch things up a little while I let DJ Funkmeister take over for this next song, because unfortunately it's just a little bit out of my range. But I hear it's one of Shannon and Chloe's favorites, so, without further ado..."

She turned and passed the microphone to the scrawny white guy who had materialized like a ghost at her elbow.

"DJ Funkmeister in da house!" he boomed, raising one arm to the assembled guests. "Is she great or what?" he continued as Santana stepped down from the stage. "Look at dat ass!" Then, when she spun around to give him a surprised look, he covered the microphone and added in his normal voice, "Sorry." Going back to his DJ persona, he intoned, "And speaking of ass, we's about to go old school up in here!" Before the echo had faded away, Sir Mix-a-Lot's _Baby Got Back _had begun to play, causing a small eruption of excitement in the room.

Santana pushed through some of the people making their way to the dance floor, searching for that telltale shimmer of seafoam green that had been drawing her attention all evening. Finally, she spotted her, lurking around the refreshment table. As if they hadn't seen each other in weeks or even months, her heart gave a funny little skip. Sometimes it still felt a bit like a dream, that she was really here, that she wasn't a mirage. She could walk right up to her, in the midst of all these people, and could claim her attention no matter who else was around. Maybe it shouldn't still have seemed so much like a tiny miracle every time it happened, but it did. She wasn't sure if she would ever quite get used to it, not completely, and she wasn't certain she wanted to.

"Hey," she said, smiling.

Brittany put down the glass of champagne she'd been drinking, leaning in for a kiss. "Hey."

"I know I already said this earlier, but you look amazing. I have to give our Teen Queen credit, he does know how to shop."

Thanks to Kurt's influence, Brittany had lately begun to get into vintage fashion, and the two of them had been scouring boutiques and thrift stores together. Tonight she was wearing a dress that could have come straight from the set of Mad Men, and would have probably looked ridiculous on anyone else. But on her, it was perfect.

"Thanks," Brittany said, pleased. She looked down at herself. "I kinda like this pointy bra. I think we could do some interesting things with it later."

Santana restrained herself from reaching out to attempt to do some interesting things with it _now_. She glanced back at the floor. "Oh, did you want to dance?"

Brittany considered, but said, "That's okay. I would just make everybody else look bad, because, yeah, me and this song go way back."

"I remember," Santana said with amused fondness, thinking of a particular Cheerios routine that hadn't gone over too well with the more conservative parents. "So... how am I doing?" she hinted.

Brittany reached over and smoothed a strand of Santana's hair that was attempting to escape. "You sound incredible. But after all those standards, it's sorta weird to hear you singing Pink and Jessie J songs again. Weird in a _good _way."

"Yeah, I know, I kinda got out of the pop habit there for a while. But it's like cocaine, you never really forget how to do it. Or so I hear," she hastened to add.

Brittany laughed a little, but she seemed a bit distracted.

"Are you having fun, Britt?" Santana asked her. "I saw you dancing with that pre-teen acne factory earlier. Was it just me or was he getting a little handsy?"

"It wasn't just you. He offered me an iPhone if I would take his virginity." Off of Santana's incredulous look, she said, "Don't worry, I turned him down. I already have an iPhone." She smiled, since history had taught her that people didn't always realize she was joking, otherwise.

A woman brushed past them, attempting to get to the cake, and they moved out of the way a little.

"Are you sure it's okay that I'm here?" Brittany asked, glancing around and then giving her a pointed look. "I mean, I know Rachel's the one who got the gig and everything, so technically if you were gonna bring a date, it probably should have been her. Don't you think?"

"_What_?" Santana pushed this idea aside, shaking her head. "No, it's fine, I checked. Look how much fun they're having." She gestured over toward the brides, who were laughing and out of breath, doing dorky nineties hip-hop dance moves and playfully smacking each other's asses. "At this point they wouldn't care if Rush Limbaugh crashed the party," she added. "Besides, you know what they said when I asked if I could bring my girlfriend? They said the more lesbian couples, the better."

Brittany watched them dance, a little wistful. "They do look really happy, don't they?"

And then, staring at the two women in wedding dresses, they both seemed to experience a simultaneous moment of awkward shyness. They glanced at each other, then away, then at each other again. Santana felt her cheeks heat up, and she had the not-entirely-unpleasant sensation that she was thirteen again.

"Come here and check out this view," she said, grateful to think of a distraction. She took Brittany's arm and led her over toward the windows, to a spot on the north end of the reception space. It was darker and quieter there, more secluded. "Can you believe people actually live in this building? Apparently the blonde bride's dad invented one of those famous old-lady perfumes."

"Oh my God, really?" Brittany said. "I should talk to him about my idea for a crayon-scented perfume. I mean, who doesn't love that smell when you open the lid of a brand new box?"

"I know, it's total genius," Santana agreed. Then she sighed with longing, looking out at the dramatic nighttime vista. "You know what, call me shallow, but just being honest? I would so be down with a Rosemary's Baby scenario if it meant I could afford an apartment in this building."

Brittany considered these words, then said, "This is one of those times when I actually wish I didn't understand what you were talking about."

They stared out over the illuminated city, at the thousands of individual windows piercing the darkness, at the black ribbon of the Hudson snaking along over to the west, while far, far below, traffic lights inched along the grid of streets. Taking it all in, Santana's face showed a mixture of awe and something like hunger. Brittany reached out and touched the cold glass of the window, as if to steady herself against sudden vertigo. Her features reflected awe too, but of a more intimidated sort.

"You're gonna live in a place like this someday when you're rich and famous, Santana," she said after a minute, sounding a bit sad. "I know you are. Even without having Satan's baby."

Santana didn't turn her head, but she experienced a sudden twinge of foreboding. What did that mean... _you're_ going to live in a place like this? Why _you _and not _we_? Was it just a clumsy word choice? All week long, there had been these occasional off-key moments with Brittany, these tiny, subtle hints that something was wrong. They just kept adding up, and they were starting to scare her. She'd thought, or maybe just hoped, that helping Britt figure out that she wanted to pursue filmmaking would sweep some of that residual disquiet away, give her something to focus on that would help combat the homesickness. But even though Brittany had been out with her camera every day, getting footage and working on her portfolio, these unnerving moments kept cropping up between them.

There was no point in saying anything about it here, though, since they were out of time, and this wasn't the place anyway. "Song's almost over, I better go," she said, turning away from the window. "Hey, you should try the caviar. It's free."

"Oh, I already did." Brittany made a disgusted face. "It tasted like fish toothpaste. I spit it out in the potted plant, I hope nobody noticed."

She smiled at her. "I'm sure no one did." She started toward the stage, but then turned back, on impulse, and pressed herself against Brittany for a deeper kiss. Surprised, Brittany brought her hands up to cup Santana's face, and then held her there for a few more seconds, drawing it out, going back in for one more gentle tug on her top lip. They both stilled and let their eyes close, oblivious to the rest of the room for the length of the kiss. When she pulled back, Santana stared at her, trying to convey something without words, though she wasn't sure exactly _what _it was that she wanted to convey. But whatever it was, Brittany seemed to be trying to understand, trying to take it in. She looked back at Santana with more focus, less distance than she had lately. It was a conversation without words.

Realizing the song had ended, Santana finally tore her attention away and hurried back to the stage to resume her duties as mistress of ceremonies.

"Sorry about that," she said as she grabbed the microphone after the delay. "Okay, before this next song, we have a special treat for everyone. I've been told that Chloe would like to say a few words about her new wife, now that she's had a few drinks to prepare her. So why don't I go ahead and hand this off to her. Chloe?" She prompted the bride, who now tentatively ascended the stage, lifting her dress to avoid tangling her feet in it.

The woman took the microphone, looking nervous, and Santana stepped back to wait. Over on the emptier side of the room, Brittany was staring out the window again, only halfway paying attention to the goings-on at this wedding reception of complete strangers.

Chloe, the dark-haired bride, already seemed uncomfortable being on the stage. She was what one would delicately call _curvy_, and she kept smoothing her dress over her ample hips with her free hand, as if trying to make herself as slim as possible. She cleared her throat. "Hi." There was a bit of microphone feedback, making her even more nervous. Santana stepped forward to adjust it for her, then retreated again.

"Um," she went on, hesitant. "Most of you know I'm really bad at this public speaking stuff, so I'll try to keep it short. I just wanted to thank everyone for coming and tell you all how much it means to us both that you're here. Because the fact is, even just a few months ago, I didn't think this day would ever come, and I'm sure most of you didn't either."

Now Brittany looked away from the window, intrigued. She crossed her arms in front of her to listen to the rest of the speech.

The woman went on. "At that time, as I'm sure you remember, Shannon was already engaged to someone else. It was no secret. And to those of you who had already bought gifts for that wedding, let me take this opportunity to apologize, again." There was scattered laughter from the assembled guests. Looking a bit less awkward now, the bride went on. "But I couldn't just stand back and let that wedding happen. I couldn't lose her to someone else. Everyone told me to. They told me we'd had our chance, and that not every relationship was meant to last forever. They told me I was crazy, and that it was time to let it go. Some people even tried to warn me that I could get slapped with a restraining order." She laughed a little. "And I know you meant well. But the thing is, I couldn't just give up like that. I _couldn't_. Because I knew, deep down, that we were meant to be together."

Brittany had gradually moved further away from the windows, still listening. There was a thoughtful expression on her face.

"I knew it more than I've ever known anything else in my life," Chloe continued. "So I had two choices. I could give in and let her go, and accept that sometimes life isn't fair. Or... I could fight for her. I could say to hell with the consequences, and do everything in my power to make sure we had every chance to make it. Because that's what you do when you love someone as much as I love Shannon." Now she was forced to stop, because there were tears in her eyes. She swallowed hard, looking straight at her bride, who stood in front of the other guests with her hand on her heart and tears in her own eyes. In an emotional voice, she concluded, "So I decided to fight. And maybe it _was _crazy. Maybe I went off the deep end there for a little bit. I don't think her former fiancée will ever feel safe being in the same room with me again. But you know what? Even though I made a fool out of myself in a hundred different ways... something tells me I'll never regret it." To her new wife, she mouthed the words _I love you_.

Now Shannon, the other bride, came up to the stage and helped her down, and everyone applauded as the two of them kissed, some guests dabbing at their eyes. Brittany watched the entire thing closely, with keen attention. A tentative idea seemed to be forming in her mind, inspired by what she'd just heard.

Santana had returned to the microphone, and she readjusted it and spoke. "If I could have your attention, now we'd like to ask everyone to stand back just a little, so that the brides can have their first dance together as a couple. And after that speech, I can understand why they chose this for their song." At her nod to the band, the music began. It was Shania Twain's _You're Still the One_. A spotlight appeared on the dance floor, the rest of the room subsiding into shadow.

Brittany remained where she was, now turning her attention from the wedding couple and back to the stage, where Santana was beginning the song. As if by reflex, while she sang the first verse her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Brittany. Brittany stepped forward just a bit, out of the dimness, to let her see where she was. Their eyes met just as she transitioned into the chorus, and Santana gave her a secret wink. Brittany smiled a little in return, because it was obvious that this song wasn't _only _meant for the bridal pair, even if nobody else in the room was aware of it.

Santana continued on through the second verse, now turning her attention back to the women on the dance floor.

_Ain't nothin' better,_

_We beat the odds together._

_I'm glad we didn't listen,_

_Look at what we would be missin'._

Brittany didn't look away from the stage, though. It was as though she'd already forgotten that the brides existed, or even that she was at a wedding reception. Her gaze was focused on one thing and one thing only, and as she watched Santana sing, she took a deep, fortifying breath. It was clear that in that moment she was coming to a decision, that she was filled with a new sense of resolve, of firm purpose. The lurking melancholy had been pushed aside. She looked ready to fight.

When the song reached its end, Santana once again sought out her eyes for the very last line.

_I'm so glad we made it,_

_Look how far we've come my baby._

Brittany stared straight back at her, exuding a new sense of confidence, and smiled.

* * *

><p>The next morning dawned bright and beautiful, a perfect spring day, the kind of day that called for new plans and fresh starts to be put into practice. Midway down the block from their building, Brittany moved purposefully along the sidewalk, carrying a bulky laundry bag over her shoulder. She was wearing dark blue, her power color, and clogs that made her even taller than she already was. In addition, her hair was in a no-nonsense bun and she wore earrings that looked like tiny daggers. It appeared as though she'd dressed for maximum intimidation.<p>

Slowing as she approached the door to the laundromat, she paused outside of it, her hand on the glass door's handle, preparing herself. Then she took a deep breath, held her head high, and went in.

She was in luck. There was only one person here, and it was the exact person she was looking for. But of course, she already knew that, since she'd been stalking her all morning.

Toward the back, Rachel was just in the process of turning the knob to start the water for what looked to be her second load. One washer already thunked away, and behind her was another full basket, not yet sorted. She looked up as the door opened, her face brightening when she saw it was someone familiar. "Brittany, hey!"

"Hey," she replied, sounding wary, caught off guard by the enthusiasm. She took the bag from her shoulder and rested it on the row of dryers, trying to re-gather her determination.

"I'm glad you came in," Rachel said, approaching. "I was meaning to ask you, what are you doing today?"

"Um... today? I'm doing laundry," she said, nodding toward the bag as if this should be self-evident. "And then probably Santana later. But first, laundry."

"Okay, well... _in between_ those two things," Rachel said, brushing aside the indelicacy, "I was thinking maybe we could do something together, since Kurt and Santana already have plans."

Uncomprehending, Brittany stared at her. "We, meaning...?"

"Meaning, you and me. I was just looking at some of the community theater listings in the paper, and this one sounds like something you might like." She picked up a newspaper she'd laid aside. "It's called _Jeanette_." As Rachel said this title, she made a sweeping gesture with her hand, as if revealing the name in lights. Brittany squinted at the space in the air, but didn't seem to see anything.

Rachel continued, reading from the paper. "The reviews say it's a dynamic one-woman show that offers a compelling look at the life and times of the first female ever elected to national office by American voters."

Brittany considered this. "Kelly Clarkson?"

"Um, no," Rachel said, checking the paper again. "No, her name is Jeanette Rankin. She was a... a congresswoman?"

Making a face, Brittany said, "She sounds boring."

"Oh. Okay. Well... what about something else, then? Maybe the Natural History museum? There are all those dinosaurs, I'm sure you'd like that."

"Yeah, but they're all _dead_. It's depressing. I prefer my dinosaurs alive. And if possible, wearing giant saddles."

Rachel briefly contemplated this, but then shook it off. "Well, then... maybe you can think of something you'd like to do? I'm open to suggestions."

Brittany looked trapped, as though all her carefully laid plans were in danger. "Why do you want to do something with me?"

"I don't know." Laying the paper aside, she came a bit closer. "It's just... I sort of get the feeling lately that I'm always rubbing you the wrong way." Then she paused, shaking her head a little and saying irritably, "I can hear the _wanky _in my head now even when she's not here." She brought her focus back to Brittany, sighing. "Anyway. Look, I realize now that the movie project probably wasn't the best bonding tool for the two of us. In fact, I think it made things worse. And you know what, I understand that I can be something of an acquired taste. But it's not as if we don't have history... right?" When Brittany didn't respond, she went on, persistent. "I just think that if we spent more time together, and got to know each other more, it might help. I would really like it if we could be closer. And I'm very proud of the fact that I have a ninety percent friendship success rating." She added, "I can get you that spreadsheet, if you'd like."

During this speech Brittany had been growing more and more uncomfortable. Now she stared down at the floor, looking guilty. "Why do you have to make this harder than it already is?"

"What?" Rachel asked, confused. "What am I making hard?" Then she closed her eyes, muttering, "_There it is again_."

Brittany began in a hesitant manner. "Rachel, don't take this the wrong way. But... okay, you know those delicious cream-filled Cadbury eggs that come out every year around Easter?"

Looking a bit thrown by this change in topic, Rachel nevertheless said, "Of course."

"Okay, so... you know how you eat the first one, and you think, oh my God, I've missed these, it's been way too long. And so then you eat another one, and it's still good, but it's a little overwhelming and it's starting to make your teeth hurt. So then you eat a few more, until eventually, you feel like you're gonna throw up, and you're just like, I never want to eat another one of these for the rest of my life? And I _definitely _don't want my girlfriend to eat any either, because I think she's starting to like them too much. You know what I mean?"

Now Rachel was even more bewildered. "I guess so," she said. "Except for that last part."

Brittany waited, as if hoping she would come to the conclusion on her own, but no such luck. "Well... _you're_ the Cadbury egg," she finally said.

After giving this a few seconds of thought, Rachel asked hopefully, "Because my personality reminds you of bunnies and springtime?"

A heavy, frustrated sigh was Brittany's only response to this. Obviously metaphors weren't the way to go. But before she could attempt a more direct explanation, her attention was caught by something poking out of the edge of Rachel's laundry basket, on the dryers behind her. Immediately she pushed past her, grabbing it. It was a purple bra.

"Where did you get this?" she demanded. "This is Santana's. So are these," she said noticing a pair of leopard-patterned underwear below them. "_And _these." She dug through the basket, unearthing more familiar items.

"Yeah, I know," Rachel said, circling around her, concerned at the pilfering. "I'm... I'm doing her laundry." In explanation, she offered, "We have an arrangement."

"Oh, of course, you have an arrangement," Brittany said, her tone sarcastic. "I should have known. You know what, I'll do these, don't even worry about it." She stuffed the rescued items into her own bag.

"It's really not a big deal, I don't mind-"

"I got it," she cut her off, giving her a dirty look.

Looking a bit daunted, Rachel didn't argue further. She watched as Brittany yanked open a washing machine and began shoving everything in together, including all the clothes she'd brought with her.

Rachel started to comment, bit her lip, but then couldn't help herself. "Brittany, aren't you going to separate the whites and the colors?"

She ignored her and kept adding clothes. "You can be a laundry racist if you want to, but that's not how I roll. And I would appreciate it if you would stop watching me."

"Okay." She held up her hands in a backing-off gesture. "Fine. But if you turn Santana's things pink, I will not be held responsible. And before you leave, I'd like to get that in writing." She retreated back to her own corner and snatched up her abandoned newspaper.

After she'd finished loading the machine and added detergent, slammed the door closed, and started the cycle, Brittany stared in at the laundry, watching the water pour in, her expression tense and frustrated. Then gradually she let her eyes focus on her own reflection in the glass of the washing machine's door. Taking a deep breath, she seemed to gather her resolve again, remembering what she'd come here to do.

"Rachel." She turned toward her. "I thought of what I want."

She looked up from the paper, eager. "You thought of what you want to do today? Oh, good. What?"

"No. I mean... I thought of what I _want_. From you. Remember a few weeks ago when you said you would do anything if I agreed to dance in your NYADA musical, but I said I didn't know what I wanted yet?"

It took her a few seconds to call up the memory of that chaotic night that had ended in universal vomiting, but she finally did. "Oh. Of course. I almost forgot all about that. What is it?" Before Brittany could answer, she hastily added, "If it's the pony, I have to warn you, I'm not sure that I'm financially ready for- "

"It's not the pony," Brittany interrupted. She paused, hesitant, and a flicker of uncertainty touched her features. But she pushed on, looking up and forcing herself to meet Rachel's eyes. "I want you to stop talking. Effective immediately."

Rachel waited, as if expecting a punch line. "I'm sorry? You... you want me to stop _talking_?"

"Not to everybody, obviously," she clarified. "Just to Santana." She considered, then threw in, "And me, too."

Baffled, Rachel tried to make sense of this bizarre and unexpected request. "I don't understand. For how long?"

Brittany shrugged, refusing to be nailed down to a time limit. "I don't know yet. But at least for a few weeks."

"But... _why_?"

Somehow Brittany managed to act casual, though it was obvious she felt bad. "You don't have to know why, that wasn't part of the deal. You said you would do anything."

Rachel was trying to work out the exact details of what she was being asked to do, still perplexed. "So, you want us to just keep on living together, like normal, only... we don't talk to each other? _Ever_?"

"Mm-hm." Brittany nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."

"But that's impossible, Brittany. It would never work," she protested.

"You'd be surprised," Brittany insisted. "My aunt Lorna stopped talking to my Uncle Chester in 1988, and they say it saved their marriage. So, it can totally be done. And I believe in you."

Taking in the meaning of this request, the implications of it, Rachel transitioned first from surprise to hurt, and then finally, as she processed the motives behind it, to something like bitterness. "I see."

Brittany waited, watching her with caution. Obviously there was more to come.

Carefully folding up her newspaper, Rachel now smiled a little, but there was no joy in it. "No, I get it. You've never liked me, and you don't like sharing, and you want me out of your way. That's it, isn't it?" But without waiting for an answer, she continued. "You know, it's funny, but I knew something like this would happen. When I heard you were coming here to stay, I just _knew _it. But I told myself, Don't be silly. High school's over, they're not like that anymore... you're worrying for nothing."

Brittany stared at a scratch on the top of one of the dryers, rubbing at it with her finger. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "But it's what I want, and you promised. I mean, if you're gonna go back on your word, then..." she trailed off.

"No, you're right." Taking a shaky breath, Rachel tried to regain her dignity, to not show any emotion. "We made an agreement, and that's that." She paused. "I don't like it, but I'll abide by it. From now on, consider me the silent roommate. Maybe I can use this experience as preparation for my Miracle Worker audition. I'm thinking of trying out for the role of Helen Keller." But the enthusiasm sounded faked.

"So, see?" Brittany said, as if she was trying to make herself feel better. "It'll work out best for everybody."

"Yeah, maybe so," Rachel nodded a little, but with no conviction. She retreated back to her own laundry basket. Despite her earlier warning to Brittany about the perils of not sorting, she now opened up a third machine and dumped the rest of her things in all together. When she'd turned the water on, she stood back and watched, her gaze unfocused and gloomy.

Brittany hopped up onto a dryer and pretended to watch her own machine, looking as though she wished she'd brought something to do. They were still the only two people in the place, and the silence was heavy and awkward. She was on the verge of taking out her phone, when suddenly Rachel shook her head. "No," she said under her breath. She turned and came back toward her again, saying louder this time, "No, I have one more thing I have to say, and then, after that, I promise I'm done. But before I stop talking, I want to give you a little piece of advice, Brittany."

She looked around, but there was no escape. "Well, do I have a veto, because what if I don't want to hear it?" she asked. "People are always trying to give me advice, and I'm sick of it. My mom, my dentist, my rabbi, those old people who pass out the shopping carts at Wal-Mart..."

"_What_, what rabbi?" Rachel demanded, momentarily distracted. "You're not Jewish."

Brittany stared at her. "That is so rude. I would never tell you that you're not Jewish."

Tilting her head back in exasperation, Rachel forced her attention back on topic. "All right, well, I'm sorry, but whether you want to hear my advice or not, I'm just gonna come right out and say it, because I might not get another chance." She paused, giving Brittany a hard look. "Why are you here?"

"What?" She was genuinely puzzled. "That's not advice, that's a question. You really suck at this."

Rachel pressed on. "I'm only asking because I'm getting the feeling more and more often lately that you don't truly want to be here."

"Well, nobody wants to be in a laundromat, Rachel, but sometimes you have to wash your clothes. Unless you're rich, because then you could just buy new clothes. Or you could stop wearing clothes completely, and paint a symbol on your stomach like a Care Bear, which I think is something we should all consider."

Increasingly frustrated, Rachel said, "Stop doing that, stop playing dumb and trying to distract me! You know exactly what I'm talking about! I'm talking about New York."

Now Brittany fell silent, rolling her eyes a little. She crossed her arms protectively across her chest and gave the dryer a soft, swinging kick with her heel, but otherwise didn't respond.

After waiting a second, Rachel continued. "Are you here just because of Santana? Or are you here because you love this place and you don't want to live anywhere else in the world?"

"What difference does it make?" she asked, the harshness of the words seeming to surprise even herself. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"It makes _all _the difference." Rachel spoke with passion, trying, without much success, to get Brittany to meet her eyes. "I see you looking so lost sometimes. It's like you're drowning but you won't ask anyone to throw you a rope." Off of Brittany's skepticism, she added, "Yes, believe it or not, I occasionally do notice other people's feelings. And I admit, maybe we haven't made as much effort as we could have to make you feel at home here. I know I'm probably the one most responsible for that." She paused, then more quietly admitted, "Maybe deep down I was hoping you wouldn't stay." She looked back up, earnest. "But Santana _needs _you to stay. It would break her heart if you left."

At this admission, Brittany shot her a searching, suspicious look, a look that implicitly asked _And why do you care so much about that?_

But Rachel didn't seem to notice it as she went on. "And if you _are _going to stay... if you're going to make this your home, then... you have to find the magic in this city. You have to find a reason to love this city, or it'll swallow you up and spit you back out."

For a minute it seemed that Brittany couldn't choose from a number of possible responses to this unsought suggestion. But eventually, a sincere yearning to know the answer won out. "How?" she asked in a soft voice. "How do you find it?"

"I don't know." Rachel shrugged helplessly. "I wish I could tell you that, but I can't. For me it was the first time I stood in Times Square, and I just _knew_. I knew I was finally where I belonged, and that I never wanted to leave. I don't what it is about New York that'll make you feel the same way. But the Brittany I used to know would be able to find the magic _anywhere_. You just have to open yourself up to it."

Brittany was quiet, contemplating these words.

"Okay." Rachel patted Brittany's knee and took a few steps backward in resignation. "No more talking from me. The silence commences now." Then, immediately contradicting this, she said, "I'm gonna go down to the diner and get a coffee. Please don't let any homeless people steal my clothes." She headed for the door, and Brittany turned to watch her go.

"Rachel."

Her fingers already gripping the handle, she turned; questioning, hopeful.

But whatever Brittany had been about to say, she decided against it, as if needing to be firm with herself.

"Never mind."

Disappointed but not surprised, Rachel continued on out the door, past the windows and down the sidewalk.

Still seated on top of the dryer, Brittany turned back around. Swinging her legs a bit, she stared pensively at her own reflection in the washing machine door in front of her, while behind the image, Santana's clothes and her own swooshed around in one sudsy mass together.

* * *

><p>"Go back up," Santana said.<p>

Kurt scrolled up the page.

"Wait. Go back down."

He scrolled down.

"Okay, how the hell am I supposed to see anything when you go that fast? Do you have lube on your fingers or something?"

Now he thrust the laptop at her, fed up. "You know what, Santana, why don't you just do it yourself?"

She took the computer and leaned back against the elaborate designer comforter on his bed, closely studying the camera options on the screen.

Kurt watched her, trying to keep his patience. "You know, when you said you wanted to go shopping this morning, this really isn't what I had in mind. I'll have you know I cancelled a hair appointment for this."

She looked up and narrowed her eyes at him. "You did _not_."

"All right, well, I moved it to this afternoon," he admitted. "That's almost like cancelling. It's a very important salon. Did you know Kyan Douglas has his hair done there?"

"Not only do I _not _know who that is, but also, I don't care. Look, I'm sorry, but I want to do some research; it pisses me off when salespeople know more than me and act all condescending. I don't want a repeat of last year, when I got thrown out of a Best Buy for threatening the life of one of their Geek Squad." She put her hand on her heart in an earnest way. "I'm trying to _grow_."

Kurt shook his head a little, not commenting on this. "Well, we've looked at just about every single camera that's in our price range. Wouldn't it be easier to just ask Brittany which one she wants?"

Santana considered and then shrugged, a bit sheepish. "I want it to be a surprise. Her last birthday was right before Nationals and graduation, and everyone was so busy... I feel like it kind of got overlooked. I want to do it right this time."

He sighed. "Then we'll just have to use our best judgment."

He leaned against the pillows next to her, and they continued looking for a few minutes. "I really like this one," Santana suggested. "It shoots in HD, it's got all these optional lenses, and look... it's got CinemaTone."

"What's that?" Kurt asked.

"I don't know. But it sounds fancy, right?"

"$1800, though," he said. "Are you sure about this?"

"I know, I know." She sat up. "But I'm gonna pay for most of it. If you guys could kick in a few hundred, that's all I'm asking. I'm also taking donations from all former _and _current members of New Directions. So that should help make up the difference."

He gave her a suspicious look. "Santana, it's not a donation if you scare them into it."

"Whatever." She rolled her eyes. "Everybody loves Brittany. If it takes a little blackmail or long-distance intimidation to remind them of that, then it's the least I can do."

"Well, then..." he pulled himself up and stood beside the bed, stretching a little. "If we're done here, then it seems I have time to do some _real _shopping before my appointment. I want to get her something that's just from me." Looking excited, he told her in a confidential voice, "I saw this obscenely chic little cocktail dress from the twenties at a vintage boutique the other day. Very Zelda Fitzgerald. Hopefully it's still there."

"Okay, the sixties are one thing, but the _twenties_?" She looked skeptical. "I may have to draw the line. What if it smells funny? And you know what, people could have died in those dresses, Kurt."

"I don't care if people were _buried _in them... they look amazing on Brittany, that's all that matters."

"She's not your personal Barbie."

"I know that," he said defensively, pulling on a sweater. "Besides, she doesn't wear anything she doesn't want to. She's incredibly stubborn. Last week she passed up a beautiful antique jade brooch in favor of a pair of cheap turquoise earrings in the shape of turtles. _Turtles_," he repeated.

She smirked at him. "Yeah, I saw the turtles, and they look adorable on her, so your argument is invalid. As usual."

Refusing to continue the debate, he turned to go, but then remembered. "Oh, I almost forgot. Here's my credit card."

She reached out and took it from him. "Are you sure it's okay if I do this? I'd use my own, but my dad closed all my accounts when I said no to Bryn Mawr."

"Just as long as you swear you'll pay it off. Technically it was supposed to be for emergencies. I'm not sure Brittany's birthday qualifies."

"Yeah, of course," she promised. "I may be a bitch, but I'm a _trustworthy _one."

Looking amused, he finally left. She settled back against his bed to continue perusing the website. Even though she'd basically settled on what she wanted, it was hard to make that final decision when there was so much money at stake. She let the cursor hover over the purchase button, still not entirely sure. Should she go out to some real stores, look around in person? While she was trying to decide, she heard the front door open. Thinking it might be Brittany back early from doing laundry, she closed the lid of the laptop and laid it aside before she went to check.

But it was just Rachel. She was carrying two full baskets of clothes and had what appeared to be the day's mail clamped between her teeth. Santana took the top basket from her and set it down on the floor of the hallway. Rachel put the other basket down beside it and took the mail from her mouth, but instead of saying thanks, she brushed past Santana into the living room.

Santana followed, saying, "I think we found the right camera. It's kinda pricey, but she'll be able to use it for years. If you want, I'll just take the money out of your commission, since I guess you're sort of like my manager now." Then she muttered to herself, "God, I hate saying that."

Rachel was sorting through the mail, her back to Santana, and her only reply to this was a brief rounded "okay" sign with her fingers.

Giving her a strange look, Santana went on. "Oh, and while we were online, we took a little mosey over to Finn's Facebook page. Interesting pictures he's got up."

Now Rachel froze, listening. There was something brittle about her posture as she waited to hear the explanation.

"Finn has man jugs," the parrot contributed.

Accustomed to ignoring Monty by now, Santana went on. "Seriously, doesn't he have any friends his own age down there? Because it looks like he's been hanging out with the custodial staff. I mean, I can understand how they may have gotten close, considering the school probably budgeted for a janitor whose sole job is to follow him around with a bucket, mopping up the sweat puddles so the other students don't slip in them. But still... after Mr. Schue, I'm starting to think he has a problem with inappropriately-aged friends."

Relieved, but somehow sad as well, Rachel slowly finished sorting through the envelopes, separating the bills from the junk mail.

Staring at her, Santana waited for a reply. But there was nothing. "Why are you being so quiet?

The only response was a shrug, but Rachel didn't turn around.

"You're not getting laryngitis, are you?" Santana sounded worried. "Because if you are, your ass is gonna have to be quarantined. I mean it, Rachel, I am _not _getting sick when I've got that big Jewish wedding coming up. I needs the dough. Brittany's birthday's about to wipe out my bank account." Nonchalantly, she added, "It won't kill you to live on the roof for a few days, it's not that cold at night anymore."

Apparently to get across the notion that she wasn't sick, Rachel turned and clutched her throat for a second, then made a violent, irritated thumbs-up gesture before heading into the kitchen.

But Santana followed her, now too intrigued to resist. "So, what then... are you taking one of those mime classes again? Do I need to remind you that you got kicked out of the last one for being too loud?"

There was no response. She might as well have been talking to herself. Rachel ignored her, opening the refrigerator.

"Okay, fine," she said in a casual voice. "Don't talk to me. You know what, I was just gonna chill and watch a Barbra movie, but I guess you wouldn't be interested." She pretended to consider the options. "What about _Beaches_... that's one of her good ones, right?"

It was the breaking point. Rachel turned around, outrage in her features. She started to say something, pressed her lips together, and then grabbed a notepad from the kitchen table. Uncapping a pen, she furiously scrawled, "_That's not Barbra, that's Bette Midler, and you know it!_" The last three words were underlined for added emphasis.

"All right, what the hell is going on with you?" Santana demanded. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

Rachel considered, but then pulled the notepad to her again. "_I'm not allowed to talk to you. Ask Brittany._" Again she underlined the last part. Then she handed Santana the notepad with injured dignity and stalked out of the room.

Turning the pad around, Santana read the words with a confused expression. She tried to make sense out of them, but couldn't. It was like a riddle with a key ingredient missing. And since obviously no one here was going to be much help, and she was too curious to wait, she took out her phone.

"Hey," she said when Brittany answered.

"Hey, what's up?"

She leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to think of how to begin without sounding too abrupt. "Um... is there anything I should know about?"

"Oh." Brittany's tone was careful. "Did you see Rachel?"

"Yeah. Emphasis on _saw_. It was like one of those annoying silent movies with old-timey piano music where everything's in fast motion."

"Well, then," Brittany said, "I guess now is the time to say... Happy Birthday!"

Instead of understanding what was going on, now Santana was even more mystified. "What? Britt, _you're _the one with the birthday coming up. Mine's in November. You sent me that entire case of Breadstix, remember?"

"Yeah, I know. But I thought I should get you another present now, because you know how on Alice in Wonderland they celebrate people's un-birthdays, which is, like, every day of the year that's _not _your birthday? I was just thinking, we haven't celebrated your un-birthday in so long. And since I have my real birthday coming up, we should just, you know, combine the two and celebrate both at the same time."

"Oh." She considered this. "I thought maybe it was because we weren't together for my birthday this year."

Brittany was quiet for a minute. "Yeah, that would have made much more sense."

"Okay, I think I get it." Now she had an explanation, which seemed reasonable enough, by Brittany's usual standards. There was still one mystery left, though. "So, my un-birthday present is... what, exactly?"

"A nice long break from the sound of Rachel Berry's voice," she told her, like it should be obvious by now. "Duh."

"_Oh_." Santana thought about this, still puzzled. "And how long is this break?"

"I don't know, it's flexible. But I think I could get us up to five years, maximum."

Santana laughed a little. "_Brittany_. I'm not really sure what to say."

"You don't like your present?" she asked softly.

"No," she protested. "It's not that. I'm guess I'm just a little concerned about how it's gonna work." On the other end of the line, there was a glum silence, and she immediately felt bad. "But we'll figure it out," she hastily added. "And you know, with finals coming up next week, this is actually really good timing. I could use the peace and quiet."

"Yeah," Brittany said, her voice brightening. "That's totally what I was thinking. That it would help you out with finals."

There was the sound of crockery clattering in the background, and Brittany muttered _thank you _to someone. "Santana?" she said. "I've got to go, my food just got here."

"Oh, right, I forgot you were meeting Allison. Okay, well... I love you. And thank you for my present."

"Love you too," Brittany said. "I'll tell Allison you said hi. Even though you didn't."

She smiled. "See you at home."

"Bye."

In a trendy coffee shop in Harlem, Brittany hung up and put her phone down beside her plate of pie. Looking a bit guilty, she stared across the table at the girl looking back at her.

"Who's Allison?" Millie asked.

"She's a friend. But nobody really likes her because she's super snobby." The thought just occurring to her, Brittany said, "I should introduce you two, I think there's like a thirty percent chance she might be gay."

"Cool," Millie said. Then she glanced down at Brittany's phone, raising her eyebrows. "So... she's freakin' out, isn't she?"

"No." Her answer was hesitant, guarded. "Not really. She was just curious about what was going on, so I told her."

"You just wait," Millie said, pointing her fork at her, before she took a bite from her pastry. "She won't be able to stand it. It'll drive her _crazy_. Like bein' cut off from a drug."

Brittany stared into her cappucino, none too thrilled about this possibility. "We'll see, I guess." She looked back up, asking, "Do you think it's a dumb idea? My, you know, plan to fight for her?"

"No, _not at all_," Millie gushed, putting one hand on her heart. "I only wish I could have thought of somethin' just as brilliant when I had my chance. I'm sure there's no way at all this could backfire and make them even closer."

Brittany waited a second before answering. "Good," she said, now looking even more worried.

They ate in silence for a minute. But obviously there was something on Brittany's mind. "Millie, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can, hon."

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and laid her fork aside, as if to prepare herself. "When you and Santana were, you know..."

Millie waited, then suggested, "Fucking?"

"Oh." Brittany raised her eyebrows a bit at this terminology. "Okay. Um, yeah. When you were doing that, did she ever... talk about me?"

Biting the inside of her lip, Millie considered the question. Sounding apologetic, she finally said, "No, not that I can remember."

"Oh," Brittany said again, in a small voice. "I was just curious."

"Wait a second," Millie said, narrowing her eyes in thought. "She _did _tell me one time about her first girlfriend. Made it sound sorta like a puppy-love thing, you know? Nothin' serious. It was another cheerleader." She paused and gave Brittany a sharp glance. "Would that have been you, by any chance?"

For a long time Brittany stared at the table, absorbing these words. "Yeah. I guess that was me."

Now Millie gave her a nod of commiseration. "When I heard she needed me to fill in at work because her girlfriend was comin' into town, I figured it mighta been. Was it sort of an on-again, off-again thing?"

"I guess you could say that." Her voice was dull, numbed by disappointment.

Setting down her coffee cup, Millie asked, "So, I gotta ask, you noticed anything suspicious lately? Between her and the Broadway freak?"

Brittany shrugged, non-committal. "Just little things, I guess. Like, is it normal to wash your friend's underwear for them? Maybe in New York it is. I don't know. I do know that I hurt Rachel's feelings really bad, and now she thinks I never liked her. Which is sort of true, but sort of not. I mean, yeah, she's annoying, but she's still my friend." She closed her eyes for a second, frustrated. "I hate this, I just hate this whole thing. I wish I'd never tried to get them all to live together."

Off of Millie's questioning look, she clarified, "Yeah, it was my idea. Genius, right? It's like that Alanis Morrissette song."

Pondering this, Millie guessed, "_Isn't it Ironic_?"

Brittany pursed her lips, thoughtful. "No, but that one works even better. Yeah, because it's like, I've got ten thousand spoons and all I need is a knife. A knife to stab Rachel with," she added. But then she looked disappointed in herself. "You see? I never used to think things like that. I don't like this version of me." She waited a second, and then asked, as though she were afraid to hear the answer, "Millie, are you _sure _that something happened between them?"

"As sure as I've ever been about anything," she said with conviction.

"But how do you know?" Brittany persisted. "Did you see something?"

Before she could answer, somebody loomed up at the side of their table. It was a woman, dressed in eccentric layers of what looked like other people's cast-off clothing, including mismatched men's boots, a purple-flowered Hawaiian shirt, and a safari hat. It also appeared as though she hadn't showered in weeks, maybe months.

"Any spare change?" she demanded.

"Get lost," Millie muttered, moving to the far side of the booth.

"Hi," Brittany said. "I like your shirt. Um, I don't have any cash with me, but I've got a bank card. Do you take Visa?"

The woman squinted at her, suspicious.

"You can have my pie crust if you want," she added. "And there's some Tic Tacs in my purse, but they might have lint, because they fell out of the box. They're still good, though."

Unable to make sense of this unusual offer, the woman finally said, "Go fuck yourself."

Brittany raised her eyebrows a little in surprise, but otherwise didn't respond. Finally, a manager realized what was going on and came to their rescue. "You! Outta here! What'd I tell ya, huh? How many times we gotta go through this?" he asked, pulling the woman toward the door. "Out!"

Brittany slowly turned her attention back to Millie, resigned. "New Yorkers really like to say that, don't they?"

Millie gave her a sympathetic wince. "Yeah, they really do." She watched Brittany for a few more seconds, seeming genuinely concerned. "You're homesick, huh?"

Brittany nodded a glum confirmation. "Everyone keeps telling me it'll get better. But it just keeps getting worse. And all this confusing stuff with Santana isn't helping." She sighed. "I wish Pete was still alive."

Millie seemed to halfway recognize this name, but it took her a few seconds to remember why it was familiar. "Wait, was he that old guy in the chair? He was crazier than a shithouse rat."

"He was my friend," Brittany said defensively. She seemed to be making an effort to put into words thoughts that she'd never spoken before. "And ever since he died, it's just like... I don't know. I feel more alone than I did before. The city feels bigger, somehow. I know that doesn't make any sense. But I try not to let Santana notice, because I know it scares her when I'm not happy. And why should we both be scared at the same time?"

In a detached tone that tried and failed to mask bitterness, Millie suggested, "Maybe she deserves to be scared."

At this, Brittany gave her a keen look, a bit disturbed. But then she said, with an air of relinquishment, "Let's not talk about this anymore. It's depressing." She pushed her plate away and folded her arms on the table. "Tell me something about you."

Millie's surprise appeared to be honest. "About _me_?"

"Yeah. Like, where you're from, and what your life was like before you came here. Are you related to Honey Boo Boo's family? Because that would be awesome."

"Um, no." She seemed to restrain herself from saying more. "Not that I'm aware of. Actually, I'm from Tennessee. My daddy's a Baptist preacher. He's one of those fire and brimstone types, you know? I mean, not to _me_," she hastened to add. "He loves me. It's just..." she trailed off, staring at her chewed fingernails. Suddenly she closed her eyes, looking ill.

"Are you okay?" Brittany peered at her, concerned. "You don't look so great. I think you're even skinnier than when I saw you last week. You want my pie crust?"

"I'm fine," she said softly and not very convincingly. "It's almost time for my vitamins, is all." Before she could be asked for details about what exactly these _vitamins _were, she looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and then leaned across the table a bit, saying just above a whisper, "Okay, truth be told, all that stuff I just said about where I'm from? It's a lie. You wanna know a big secret?"

Brittany's interest was immediately caught. "Totally. I love secrets."

"But you gotta swear you won't tell anyone else, ever."

"I swear."

Lowering her voice even more, Millie said, "This accent? It's fake. I'm not even from the South. I'm from..." she let the tension build up. "_North Korea_."

Puzzled by this unexpected announcement, Brittany said, "Seriously?"

Millie nodded, silent and grave. "I'm a spy. And that's not all. Guess where I grew up? On a dragon ranch."

"A _dragon _ranch?"

"I know, right?" Millie whispered. "I'm not supposed to talk about it with anyone, because it's a big ol' government secret. They train these dragons, way up in the mountains, and my whole family was in charge of teachin' 'em to fly. And the family who lived next door to us? _Their _job was teachin' 'em to talk." Warming up to her story, Millie continued, clearly enjoying herself. "And I'm tellin' you, these dragons? They are just about the most adorable damn things you've ever seen. They come in all different colors, including rainbow and glitter. Now obviously, they can be used for super secret war stuff, like torchin' buildings and whatnot. But you know what the best thing is? They _poop marshmallows_."

"You're kidding me. Marshmallows?" Brittany repeated.

Millie nodded, her eyes big. "That's how they fund the training program. All the young'uns go out and gather up the marshmallows in little baskets, and then they sell 'em to people back here in the States. I bet you didn't even know the last time you had a Moon Pie, you were eatin' dragon poop all the way from North Korea, did you? But _now _you know the truth."

Brittany stared at her, her expression unreadable. "Wow."

"I know, it's pretty amazing, right?" She sat back, pleased with herself.

Running her finger around the rim of her nearly-empty coffee mug, Brittany seemed to be contemplating her next words with care. Finally, in a slow, thoughtful voice, she spoke. "Actually, what I was _thinking _was more like..." She looked up, meeting Millie's eyes. "How stupid do you think I am?"

She blinked in surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, cuz... that was probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life. And I've heard a lot of ridiculous things. I was the one saying most of them," she added in an aside. "And if we're judging crazy levels the same way we judge tornadoes, for instance, then I'm thinking that was like an F5 of crazy."

"What do you mean?" Millie attempted to look hurt. "You don't believe me?"

"Okay, well, let's start with the beginning of your story. First of all, you're definitely not from North Korea, because one, you have red hair. And two, North Korea is a secretive Communist dictatorship run by an authoritarian family, and no one is allowed in or out."

Startled, Millie only stared at her. "How do you even _know _that?"

"Let's just say that I have a year and a half of high school political experience under my belt, and I thought it would be wise to familiarize myself with my fellow world leaders. And I guess it's a good thing I did, because I'm confident Kim Jong-un would agree with me that your lies are colorful but creepy, and also that you would make a terrible spy."

Millie started to speak, but Brittany kept going, not giving her a chance.

"Not to mention, I'm pretty sure that dragons have been extinct at least since the Middle Ages. And if they ever did exist, they couldn't talk, because hello, can you imagine what breathing fire does to your vocal cords? Also, glitter isn't a color. And as for the thing about the marshmallow poops," she went on, "Well... that's just embarrassing. I'm embarrassed for you." She gave her a searching look. "Did you really think I would fall for that? I mean, yes, it's true, I may have a whimsical outlook on the world at times, because reality can be super depressing. But... I'm not four years old. And it really pisses me off when people treat me like I am."

"Of _course _you're not," Millie said in a patronizing way. "I would never think that."

But Brittany didn't seem to be listening. As if she was talking to herself, she said, "Maybe Santana was right. Maybe I do trust people too easily."

Reaching across the table, Millie put her hand on top of Brittany's. "Don't you believe that for a second. That's just her tryin' to make you doubt yourself."

Brittany stared down at their hands, growing increasingly unnerved. She pulled her own hand back toward her. "I don't think she would ever do that. And the thing is, now... I'm kind of wondering if I can believe _any _of the stuff you've told me."

Worried by this unexpected turn of events, Millie hastily protested, "Okay, look, maybe I exaggerated a wee little bit about the dragon stuff. Where I come from we call it yarn spinnin', isn't that quaint?" When Brittany didn't seem to find it quaint, she went on. "I thought you would enjoy it. But I didn't make up anything else. Everything I said about that coldhearted bitch is true."

Though she waited a few seconds before responding, it was evident that Brittany's mind was already made up. "I'm sorry," she told Millie. "But... I don't think you're a very nice person, and I don't think I can hang out with you anymore." She stood up, grabbed her bag, and without another word headed toward the exit.

She made it through the door, the bell jingling behind her. But on the sidewalk just outside the coffee shop, Millie caught up with her, jumping in front to block her path. "Wait," she pleaded. "_Wait_. Just hear me out, okay?"

With reluctance, Brittany stopped, listening.

"So, yeah, maybe I am kind of a bitch. I won't deny that. But you know what, cupcake, sometimes it takes someone outside a relationship to see it clearly, because the people in it are like two water snakes coiled around each other so tight they can't tell where one ends and the other one starts."

Though she didn't quite seem to comprehend this unusual metaphor, Brittany didn't comment.

"And I'll tell you what _I_ see," Millie continued. "I see two puzzle pieces that ain't ever gonna fit together, and I see a gal who's gonna get her heart broke, just like I did. Deep down, you know it's true." She stared at her so intently that Brittany shifted her weight, uncomfortable. But she refused to make eye contact.

"Ask yourself this," Millie said, lowering her voice and stepping even closer. "Do you really think it's gonna last? All that quirky stuff about you she thinks is adorable right now... in twenty years, do you think she'll still find it so cute?" Her expression turned pitying. "Will _anybody_?"

Though she flinched a bit, and though Millie's satisfied smirk proved she knew she'd scored a direct hit, Brittany kept her tone calm and even. "You don't know anything about Santana. I thought you did, but you don't."

"Maybe not." She shrugged. "But then again, maybe you don't, either." She waited, but when there was no reply, she turned up her palms in a gesture of giving up. "Okay, fine. I can see there's no gettin' through to you, ladybug. What do I care, it's your heartache. Just keep your eyes open, that's all I'm sayin'. If there's somethin' funny going on between them, if the signs are there? You'll see 'em. And if you're smart, you'll leave 'em to it and never look back."

"Millie?" Brittany now looked straight at her, her patience wearing thin. "Please get out of my way, before I have to make you move."

Finally, Millie stepped aside, her face a strange mixture of triumph and sadness.

Leaving her behind, Brittany walked away, fast at first, head held high. But then, when she'd turned the corner, she let her pace slow, pulling her jacket closer around her body. Her eyes were glittering with either anger or unshed tears, or maybe a combination of both. As she headed back toward the subway stop, she ignored the people passing by her and instead stared down at the cracks in the sidewalk under her feet, contemplating them as though if she studied them hard enough, if she could somehow break their code, they would help her make sense of everything that had happened in these last few confusing weeks and months since arriving in New York.

* * *

><p>Santana stared at the textbook propped open in front of her on the kitchen table, trying for the third or fourth time to focus on a paragraph about the structural differences between RNA and DNA molecules, and how they affected genetic traits. Had they even covered this in class? She couldn't remember a bit of it. Was that the day Brittany had come with her? Thinking about that distracting experiment, remembering the feel of a hand sliding secretively up her inner thigh, and then what had followed it in the supply closet, made her feel flushed. She looked across from her, where Brittany had a laptop open and was sucking on her lower lip in concentration as she watched something on the screen. Part of her wanted to try to recreate the fun, maybe reach out with a bare foot underneath the table and let her toes creep up Brittany's leg, but at the same time, she didn't want to disturb her while she was working on her film school application reel.<p>

It probably wasn't the best time anyway, since there was another distraction present, in the form of Rachel and her cell phone, out on the fire escape balcony, having an obnoxiously loud conversation with... someone.

So Santana did the mature thing and went back to her biology text. But the over the top laughter drifting in through the window kept breaking her concentration. Was it her imagination, or did it just keep getting louder? She stared out at Rachel's back, irritated.

"Who the hell do you think she's talking to, anyway?" she asked Brittany. "Must be _very _entertaining, whoever it is."

Brittany looked up at her, waiting just a beat before replying. "I don't know."

They both attempted to go back to their respective tasks, but now Brittany seemed distracted too. It had been almost a week since she'd struck her deal in the laundromat with Rachel. That had been a Sunday, and today was Friday. For almost five whole days, the arrangement of silence had been in place. And so far, it seemed to be working out okay. To everyone's surprise, Rachel had stuck to the agreement with almost obsessive vigilance. It was as though she'd become a ghost; or rather, as though _they _had become ghosts, like they'd been erased from her world. She seemed to make every effort to look through them rather than at them when they were in the same room. Even when Santana most expected her to cave, she didn't.

For instance, summoning up willpower from who knows what inner reserves, she'd managed not to correct Brittany when she'd described _Godspell _as a musical about a spelling bee "where God loses, because everybody knows Satan is a better speller." Crammed together in front of the bathroom mirror in the mornings, she suffered through the twin assaults of Santana's spritzed perfume on one side and Kurt's hairspray on the other with no comment (other than melodramatic choking sounds.) She didn't even speak up when Kurt's new boyfriend Eli inquired (after hearing the parrot insult him) who Finn was, and was informed by Santana that he was a mythical creature with a burrito where his heart should be.

When it was absolutely necessary to convey some kind of message or question to them, she did it through Kurt, like on the morning after the deal had been struck, when she'd said to him in a deliberately haughty voice, "Kurt, could you please ask Santana and Brittany if they have any idea where my non-dairy whipped cream is?"

Wryly, he'd turned toward them, since they were all in the living room. "Rachel would like to know if you stole her whipped cream."

They'd exchanged guilty glances. "I didn't know it was hers," Brittany said, with what may or may not have been sincerity. "But that would explain why it made Santana's boobs taste like chalk dust."

Rachel and Kurt both continued to stare at them.

"We'll replace it," Santana said, growing uncomfortable.

Kurt turned back to Rachel. "They said they'll replace it."

Rachel had held her pose of horrified dismay for a few more seconds, then shook her head at their horridness and flounced out of the room.

But that had been when things were still new and unfamiliar, and by now they'd worked out the kinks in the arrangement so that it was running fairly smoothly. In general, Rachel seemed to be trying to avoid them as much as possible, and the result was that the apartment had been eerily quiet. There were no loud arguments about whose turn it was to take out the trash, no impromptu group singing, no chaotic dinners crowded around the tiny kitchen table. The solemnity was a little like it had been after Pete died, only now, instead of seeking out each other's company for comfort, they all avoided each other.

Despite the somber atmosphere around the place, though, Santana had found that thanks to Brittany's strange gift of peace and quiet, she actually _had _gotten a ton of studying done. She felt even more prepared for finals than last semester, and she had no doubt that even if this was her last attempt at normal college courses, she would at least go out with a good record. So she'd given up trying to make sense of Brittany's motives in imposing this unusual silence.

But even with the obvious benefit to her academic life, she was aware that underneath the apartment's quiet lurked a tension that was building by slow degrees. She became more aware of it with each day that passed, and she knew for damn sure that she wasn't the only one who noticed it. This whole thing wasn't going to end in harmonious reunion between the four of them, with hugs and raised toasts. That much was apparent. There was more than likely some kind of explosion coming; she could feel its approach in the tension that weighted down the hushed rooms. She was dreading it, but in a weird way she was also subconsciously anticipating it, like a thunderstorm that would finally clear the oppressive pressure in the air.

When it came to Brittany, it didn't seem that her plan was giving her the peace of mind she'd hoped it would. There was an initial sense of relief; she seemed to breathe easier knowing that she didn't have to be on her guard at all times. But that hadn't lasted long. Soon, the slowly building tension between the four of them was too much for her to ignore, even though ignoring it appeared to be exactly what she was determined to do. Especially with Santana, she made every effort to behave as if things were just the way they should be, at long last. As if things in New York had finally been restored to the way she'd hoped to find them to begin with.

Every once in a while, though, a brief flash of impatience could be seen in her features. Like now, when Santana looked up from her textbook again to remark, "I mean, since when does she laugh that much on the phone? I know it can't be Finn," she said in a deliberately loud voice, "because FINN ISN'T FUNNY."

In response to this, but without interrupting her conversation, Rachel turned around and firmly closed the window to the fire escape. Santana narrowed her eyes in resentment, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms as she stared out at her.

Brittany went back to her editing program, drawing in her breath and then letting it out slowly.

Santana continued to stare outside in contemplation, not bothering to go back to her book this time. After a few seconds she suggested, "Maybe it's Mercedes. She's funny. Not as funny as _me_, but..."

"Hey," Brittany said suddenly, snapping her laptop closed. "Why don't we go in the living room?"

"Okay," Santana agreed, but not without casting one more suspicious glare out the window before she left the kitchen.

Kurt was in the arm chair, working on what looked like his musical script while trying at the same time to pay attention to the TV. He glanced up when they came in, not very welcomingly. In solidarity with Rachel, perhaps, he hadn't been speaking to them much this week either.

"I'm watching Toddlers and Tiaras," he told them in a warning voice. "I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

"Yeah, because _that _doesn't sound creepy at all," Santana said.

Brittany continued toward the couch. "We're just gonna sit in here, we won't bother you," she promised.

Santana started to lower herself onto the opposite end of the sofa, but Brittany grabbed her arm, a spark of meaning in her eyes. With a slight smile, she pulled her over toward the other end and tugged her down, turning sideways and backing herself up against the arm rest. Getting the idea, Santana situated herself in between Brittany's legs and leaned back against her, extending her legs out in front of her down the length of the couch.

Kurt's gaze flicked over to their seating positions. "Really?"

"Just shut up and watch your pageant," Santana told him.

Brittany reached around Santana's body and positioned the laptop so that they could both see it. Resting her chin on Santana's shoulder, she whispered, "You want to see some of the stuff I shot this week?"

"Of course," she said. So far, Brittany hadn't shared much of what she'd been filming. It was almost like she was uncertain about whether it was even worth sharing or not.

Hesitantly, she now scrolled through some of it for Santana, describing a few selected clips. "This is that old lady who told me about the laser rats. She also said that last week, while she was sleeping? Someone stole both her kidneys for an underground transplant ring." The screen showed an older Korean woman sitting on a park bench, her wild, unruly hair framing a bright, haunting, oddly compelling gaze. "And oh, look at this," Brittany continued, clicking to another segment. "This was the day they closed the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center. I thought it would be all depressing, but then, look... they added all these cute little tables and made it a restaurant for spring and summer." The footage jumped in a sudden yet evocative way from an image of the sad, abandoned slush to a lone man fixing a floral umbrella canopy to a café table, then standing back to appraise his work.

She went through more clips, some of them from familiar locations, places the two of them had been together, and some of them featuring people and places Brittany had discovered all on her own. Santana stared at the laptop in growing wonder. It wasn't quite what she'd been expecting - though she didn't know what, in particular, she _had _been expecting. But it was mesmerizing to watch, and she didn't think that this was solely because she was head over heels in love with the person who'd filmed it. She couldn't take her eyes from the screen. The footage managed to capture something of an insider's and an outsider's perspective of the city at the same time, and every minute of it was suffused with Brittany's unique, unconventional point of view.

"Britt, this stuff is amazing," she said in a tone of awed wonder. She wanted to add that it would look even more visually stunning when she had a better camera, which she would be getting on her birthday next week, but she stopped herself. "Those film school snobs are gonna be blown away," she added.

"I don't know about that," she said. There was a hint of doubt in her tone. "Do you really think it's ready?"

"Are you nervous about that thing tomorrow?" Santana asked, referring to the campus tour Brittany had scheduled at Tisch for the next morning. "Because it's not a big deal, you know. It's not like an official interview or anything. It's just a chance to look around and chat with the professors."

"I know," Brittany said, but she didn't sound convinced. "But will you promise me something? If I start to say anything too stupid, or too weird, or too, you know... _me_. Could you pinch me or give me some kind of signal? Or maybe we could have a secret word, like... _nipples_. And when you say it, I'll know to shut up."

"Brittany." She put her hand over the Brittany's wrist where it rested against her stomach. Why did this request make her heart hurt? "You're not gonna need any help, because they're gonna love you." She paused. "But if it really makes you feel less anxious, I'll do it. Even though there's no doubt in my mind that your talent will make them willing to sell their own organs to get you into that school."

Behind her, Brittany dropped a pleased yet somehow bashful kiss onto the top of her shoulder, murmuring a _thanks _so soft it was almost inaudible.

Over in his cage, the parrot noticed the gesture and imitated it with an exaggerated kissing sound. They laughed at him.

Still absorbed in his reality show, Kurt suddenly spoke up, almost as though he was talking to himself. "You know what, I don't care what anyone says about how twisted these things are. When I have kids, they're going to take the pageant world by storm. And you know why? Because they will have what none of these other trainwrecks have - a sophisticated knowledge of correct spray tan technique."

Santana was clearly in favor of ignoring him, but Brittany looked up from the laptop screen, intrigued. "So, you think you're definitely gonna have kids, Kurt? With Eli, or... you know, someone else?"

Surprised by the direction she'd gone with his offhand remark, he took a few seconds to consider. "Well... I suppose so. I mean, I haven't thought about it in a lot of detail, but... someday, I hope."

"Cool," she said, like this was what she'd been hoping to hear. "Because I was thinking the other day that we should do, like, an exchange program."

He gave her a confused look. "What do you mean?" Santana, as well, waited for an explanation. She leaned forward, taking her weight off of Brittany so that she could turn her body a bit and look back at her, a question in her features.

"Yeah," Brittany continued, enthusiastic, "because me and Santana are gonna have all these extra eggs, and you and your guy will have way too much of, you know... the other stuff." Her tone indicated the answer was simple and self-evident. "So, we should just switch. What do you think?"

Now it was Santana's turn to squint in puzzlement. "Hold up, by _the other stuff _are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

"I'm talking about semen," Brittany confirmed.

Santana nodded, looking just a bit grossed out. "Yep, that's the other stuff."

"Well, think about it," Brittany said. "It would work out perfectly, because we can just do a straight-across trade. And then we can keep all the gay embryos, and get rid of the other ones, because I mean, come on, the gay ones will be much cooler people." She ticked off the list on her fingers. "They'll throw better parties, they won't resent us when they grow up for making them wear rainbow clothes, and let's face it, they'll probably be thinner and better looking."

"_Brittany_," Santana said, laughing. "That's horrible, you can't sort kids that way. Even _I_ know that."

"Okay, okay," she relented with a smile. "If it means that much to you, we can keep the straight ones too." Another idea occurred to her. She lowered her voice, tactfully. "Or we could donate 'em to Finn and Rachel, because you know he's probably gonna be shooting blanks."

Santana laughed again, throwing her head back against the couch cushions in delight.

"Brittany," Kurt said in a delicate way. "It's a very considerate offer, and it's... definitely something to keep in mind for the future. The _distant _future. But I'm not sure if- "

Sobering up, Santana cut him off. "It's not happening. There's no way in hell I'm raising Kurt Hummel's baby."

"Why not?" Brittany asked, pouting.

"_Because_. It's too weird. What if it inherited those creepy watery eyes of his that always look like they're about to cry even when they're not? As a mother, I would find that disturbing. Besides," she went on with a shrug, uncomfortable. "I guess I always figured we would... I don't know, get that stuff from a stranger. That way he wouldn't always be poking his nose in, trying to be part of the kid's life or whatever."

"But that's the best part," Brittany said. "It'd be like one big family. One big, gay family." She didn't seem at all serious, though. "C'mon," she said, elbowing Santana. "You're telling me you wouldn't want to see how adorable a Hummel-Pierce baby would be?"

Santana put her head in her hands, groaning in amusement, "Oh my God, that's horrifying. Why would you even say that?"

Unable to hide how much she was enjoying this, Brittany suggested, "What about a Hummel-Lopez baby?"

"Stop it," Santana pleaded, still laughing. Then a silence fell, and she finally glanced up at Brittany again to find that she was biting her lip and giving her a knowing look, eyebrows raised as if to make some kind of point. "What?"

"Nothing." She shrugged, coy and secretive.

"_What_?" Santana repeated, giving her leg a playful nudge.

Barely able to suppress her grin, Brittany said in a low, teasing voice. "You were talking about babies."

Realizing that this was true, Santana felt her face heat up a bit. "I was _not_."

"Yes, you were," Brittany nodded, still smiling, not letting her off the hook. "You totally were, Kurt heard it too. You can't deny it. Santana Lopez was talking about _baaaybies_."

"You tricked me!" Santana protested.

"Santana wants so many babies," she said, still in that teasing voice. "She wants the gay ones, _and _the straight ones. She wants all the babies."

Santana shoved her, still laughing, still embarrassed, but at the same time feeling a sense of giddy uplift, because Brittany just looked so happy right now, and it was so long since they'd been silly like this, and the implications of what they'd just been joking about were so dizzying she couldn't even wrap her mind around them. Brittany pushed her back, then reached out to grasp the ticklish part of her knee, the part that always made her squeal and go into defensive mode. They playfully tussled on the couch, emitting random yelps and shrieks. When Brittany had relented with the tickling she pulled Santana in for a kiss, which in turn got the bird worked up and jealous, flapping against the bars of his cage, squawking commercial jingles at them to make them look away from each other. But they didn't.

Kurt attempted to ignore all of this, turning the volume on the TV up with an air of weary patience. But it was just at that moment that Rachel came into the room. Instead of discreetly moving away, as Santana expected she would, Brittany only pulled her closer, pressing her lips to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Rachel glanced at them, rolled her eyes, and then continued on her path toward Kurt.

"Kurt, I have the most incredible news." She gestured toward the TV. "Can you turn that down?"

Sighing, he obliged. "Can't a man just watch a toddler beauty pageant in peace?"

Rachel was too excited to listen to him. "I just found out from a top secret source that the rumors are true," she told him. "Joanna Gleason is definitely going to be on campus next semester. She's teaching a course on stage acting, with an optional evening seminar on the art of television guest-starring. Now, obviously, the upperclassmen will get first dibs, but since we found out so early, if we register now, I think we have a really good shot at getting in."

A quick _oh no_ look flickered across his face, and his anxiety was like a chain reaction. Realizing where this was headed, Santana tensed up a bit and pulled away. Brittany stiffened too, staring at Rachel with resentment, which went unnoticed.

Now Kurt raised his eyebrows and tried to smile, managing a strained, "Really? Joanna Gleason? That's... great news."

"Yeah, I know," Rachel said, her hands still clasped together in excitement. "So... what are we waiting for, let's go and sign up online right now."

"Oh." He made an attempt at casualness. "You know what, that's okay, I'll just do mine later."

"Kurt, did you not hear a word I just said? We can't wait, those spots are gonna go fast. This is like the black market of course registration."

"Racist," Brittany muttered under her breath.

Not even turning her head, Rachel said to Kurt, "You know what, why don't I just register for both of us. It's no problem."

There was a brief flicker of panic in his eyes. "Um.. the thing is, you'll have to have my social security number for that."

But Rachel was undaunted. "That's okay, I memorized it years ago, in case of emergency. Along with everyone else's in glee club."

"_What_?" Santana demanded. "What the hell kind of emergency would that be?"

Barred from responding, Rachel ignored her. She stared at Kurt, waiting for his permission.

Now he seemed to be out of options. Miserable, he turned the TV all the way off and then slowly stood up, choosing his words with delicate tact. "Rachel, first off, let me just say that I'm so sorry. I _really _didn't want to do it this way. I wanted to take you out for a nice meal, maybe see a show, hopefully get you a little drunk..."

"Gross," Brittany commented.

Rachel was staring at him like he was crazy. "What are you talking about, do _what _this way? Are you breaking up with me?"

"The thing is..." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second, and then took the plunge. "I'm not going back to NYADA next year."

"What?" The volume of her voice caused Monty to ruffle his feathers self-protectively. "Yes, you are."

Though Kurt was clearly regretting the timing of his admission, he remained firm. "No, I'm not. I've already made the decision. Rachel, you know I love performing, but I love being behind the scenes even more. When I'm working with fashion, or wardrobe... or doing something creative, _that's_ where I'm at home. And deep down, you already know that's true. You know me better than anybody in the world." He glanced down at his laptop, then said in an attempt at placating her, "I'm almost finished with my musical about Pete's life. I wasn't going to say anything until I find out for sure, but there's a chance I may even be able to get it produced. The theater in question has been condemned due to asbestos and lead paint and the fact that it may be haunted, but... we can cross that bridge when we come to it." He tried to make eye contact, but she resisted him. "And you _have _to play Greta, it could be a career-defining role," he coaxed her. "Just think how much it'll benefit you to have a friend on the production side."

But she wasn't going to be swayed by flattery or enticements, not this time. "Kurt, I don't understand. We worked so hard for this." She stepped closer to him and made an attempt to lower her voice, even though privacy was not even a remote option with Brittany and Santana only a few feet away on the couch. "You promised me you wouldn't decide anything for sure until we'd had a chance to talk about it."

"I know. I know I did," he repeated. "And I'm sorry. But I _did _talk about it with someone." He winced a little. "Just... not with you."

"Who?" she demanded.

In response, he glanced toward Brittany, looking guilty. Rachel followed his line of sight.

"_Oh_," she said, livid. "Oh, of course, I should have known!" She stepped toward Brittany, saying, "You know what, I have tried to be the bigger person, I have tried to be your friend, but ever since you got here, it's just been one thing after another."

Brittany looked down at her lap, guiltily, but Santana's defensiveness flared up, and she stood, stepping in between them. "Whoa, excuse me? You'd best stop right there, Pippi, before you say something you'll really regret. Even if I have to _make _you regret it."

Rachel started to reply, but then turned back toward Kurt, as if it wasn't worth it. "How could you do this to me?"

"Rachel, please," he begged. "Stop being so overdramatic. It's not that big of a deal. I'll still be _living _here, we just won't be going to class together. But there's a good chance Santana will get admitted. So it isn't as if you'll be completely alone there."

"Oh, that's even better," she said with heavy sarcasm. "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to sitting silently next to her on the train every day!"

"Would you please calm down?"

"I am calm!" she shouted. In a lower voice, she went on, looking around at all of them. "You know, it's funny, I was just thinking to myself last week how lucky I am to live with such amazing friends. But now... I'm not allowed to speak to two of them, and the other one is a sneaky, backstabbing traitor!" With an air of finality, she headed toward the front hallway, yanking a purse onto her shoulder as she continued to lecture them. "Well, luckily for me, it just so happens that you aren't the only people in this city I can hang out with." She blindly grabbed a jacket from the tiny coat closet, which happened to be Santana's, but nobody said anything.

"Rachel." Kurt took a few steps toward her, looking like he felt terrible. "Where are you going?"

"Out!" It was obvious how upset she was by the fact that she didn't elaborate on this with any unnecessary words. They heard the front door slam behind her, hard enough to rattle the pictures on the walls in the living room.

There was a brief silence, then Monty announced, "The Tony Award goes to Miss Rachel Berry."

They all turned toward the bird.

"I'm starting to wish we'd never taught him that," Brittany said softly.

"Well!" Santana said, looking at Kurt. "That little scene was both entertaining _and _awkward. I'm so glad Britts and I got to have cameo roles in it."

Suddenly his guilt turned to indignation. "Thanks a lot for the support, guys. I really appreciate it."

"Oh, don't you _dare _try to turn the tables, this has nothing to do with us. What did you want us to do, put on our Cheerios uniforms and stand behind you chanting _Go Kurt_?"

"I'm just saying a little backup would have been nice."

She gave him a withering look. "God, I hate it when you play the martyr, it is such a bad look on you. And for the record, I'm kind of on her side anyway. You shouldn't have waited so long to say something. And so now, what, if I _do _get admitted to the Institute of Queerer Learning, it's just gonna be me and her? I did not sign up for that."

"That's right, Santana, everything is about you!" he said. "Nobody else's problems matter. After all, I'm sure Rachel storming out with her feelings hurt has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that after six months of being her friend, you've suddenly forbidden her to speak to you."

She stepped toward him, pointing her finger confrontationally. "No, uh-uh, don't even try it, St. Hummel. You may have the rosy cheeks and the forever innocent voice of a castrated choirboy, but your guilt trip won't work on me. This whole thing started because of _your _little announcement. You're just trying to find someone else to blame for your shitty timing."

"Fine. That's just fine. Go ahead and lay the whole burden on me." He gazed down at her as if from lofty heights of moral superiority. "But I'm not the only one who should feel guilty here, and you know it. _Both _of you." He turned and swept out of the room, head held high. Somehow he managed to make the emphatic closing of his bedroom door sound like a judgment on both of them.

Shaking her head in disdain, Santana turned back toward Brittany, who had sat back down again. Throughout the entire heated exchange she'd been staring at the floor, uncomfortable.

Santana's expression softened as she looked at her. "Just ignore him, Britt."

Glancing up, Brittany couldn't seem to help suggesting, "Maybe he kind of has a point, though."

"Yeah, it's eighteen inches above his forehead, and it's made of hair gel."

This earned her only the tiniest of grudging smiles, then Brittany relapsed into guilt. "I kinda feel like this whole thing is my fault."

Santana sank down next to her on the couch again. "No, honey, this is just what they're like," she tried to convince her. "If they don't have any real drama, they'll manufacture some... it's like living in a bad play. Come on, you know that by now."

"I know, but it's just... it seems like I keep making everything worse." She gave Santana a careful look. "Don't you ever wish things would go back to the way they used to be, before I got here?"

"_No_." She sounded bewildered. "The way things used to be sucked." _Because I spent every single minute missing you_, she added in her head, but stopped herself from saying out loud.

"I guess. Sometimes I just feel like a fourth wheel or something."

Santana considered this. "Well, four wheels are good, right? I mean, you have to have four wheels. Otherwise the car won't go."

Brittany seemed puzzled. "Then... I don't think I'm using that expression right."

Lapsing into silence, Santana continued to watch her for a few more seconds, thoughtful. Deep down, the mature part of her knew that this would maybe be a good opportunity to press her, to get everything out in the open. She had the sense that she was finally starting to get closer to the root of the homesickness problem. But she liked the current feeling of solidarity they shared against Rachel and Kurt, and she didn't want to ruin it with any potential discord between the two of them. So once again she decided to wait. There would be a better time.

Abruptly, an idea occurred to her. "I've got it. I know just what we need." She took Brittany's hands in hers, continuing. "It's a perfect springtime Friday in the greatest city in the world, and I'll be damned if we're staying in this shoebox all night." She leaned in toward Brittany, saying enticingly, "What do you say we slut ourselves up, go to some clubs, and get our dance on? I just happen to have in my possession the credit card of one Mr. Kurt Hummel."

Now Brittany returned her devilish smirk, tempted, but with a twinge of conscience at this news. "Santana, why do you have that?" she chided her.

Since telling her the truth would ruin the birthday surprise, she only said mysteriously, "That's not important. What's important is that it's supposed to be used for emergencies, and I'm pulling rank and calling this an emergency. A clubbing emergency."

Amused, Brittany said, "I thought only the Lohans had those." But she was close to giving in, Santana could see it. She was staring down at their linked hands, debating with herself.

"Come on," Santana coaxed her, squeezing her fingers. "Don't let them ruin your mood, Britt. They're not worth it. We were having so much fun before."

"Okay," she finally agreed. "Let's go out. But when you say slutty, you mean, like, _really _slutty, right?" She bit her lip, hopeful.

Santana pulled her up from the sofa, then began walking backwards, luring her out of the room. "I'll let you dress me in whatever you want. Anything goes."

"Anything?" Brittany's interest was now fully caught.

Santana reconsidered. "Anything from this century."

With a mischievous look in her eyes, Brittany allowed herself to be tugged down the hall and into their bedroom.

* * *

><p>It was past midnight when they got off the subway, back home in Brooklyn again. Or at least she thought it was past midnight. Santana made an effort to check her watch, which was really intended more for decoration than actual time-keeping, but taking her eyes off the sidewalk caused her to stumble a bit, knocking into Brittany. Brittany caught her and kept her from falling, but then giggled when they both nearly tripped off the edge of the curb. It was possible that they'd had just a little too much to drink.<p>

Santana gave up on checking the time. It didn't matter, anyway. All that mattered was that they'd had an amazing evening, that they'd danced until they could barely stand up, and that she was walking down the sidewalk on a cool spring night with the only person in the world she wanted to be next to. It was almost as though, on the dance floor, they'd left behind some of the tension that had been creeping up on them for the last few weeks. Now they were exhausted, limp, sweaty, but with a strange sense of euphoria. Even though they were headed home, Santana was in no hurry for the night to end.

And Brittany didn't seem to be either. Instead of taking a cab, the way they usually would have at this hour on a Friday night, she'd asked if Santana would mind walking the remaining blocks back to their building. And even though they were having the occasional difficulty balancing and staying upright, thanks to impractical shoes and too much alcohol, she was glad she'd agreed. She glanced over at Brittany, for the fourth or fifth time since getting off the train, unable to help sneaking looks at her glowing profile.

"Did you have fun?" she asked.

"I had _so _much fun. How come we don't do this every weekend?"

"I don't know," Santana said after a second. That was a good question. "Maybe because we don't usually have Kurt's credit card?"

Brittany grinned, all her guilt left behind at least three drinks ago. In the philosophical tone of the tipsy, she said, "Hey, speaking of Kurt, you know that thing you said about his hair earlier? I totally think you're right, I think it's getting taller. Like, every day, it's a little bit taller. I'm starting to think he's storing stuff in there, like a camel."

Santana grabbed her again for balance, wrinkling her forehead as she pondered this. "You think he's got a camel in there?"

Glancing over at her with amused affection, Brittany said, "Aww." She stroked her arm. "I love it when I feel smarter than you."

Still confused, Santana let this pass. Teasingly, she suggested, "Okay, maybe the real reason we don't go clubbing every weekend is because I'd get too jealous. I'm pretty sure that woman with the mohawk wanted to take you home with her, Britt."

Brittany smiled in agreement, not arguing the point. "Yeah, I know. She kept telling me all this dirty stuff that she wanted to do to me? But... I'm not even sure what half of it meant." She paused, contemplative. "Is there, like, some kind of lesbian dictionary we can get? The kind with pictures?"

Santana threw back her head and laughed. "I'll look into it," she promised. They crossed another street, and a breeze gusted around the corner of a building, causing her to wrap her arms around herself. The motion didn't go unnoticed by Brittany.

"Are you cold?"

"It's a little chilly," she admitted. "I'm okay."

But Brittany took off her jacket, some kind of shiny green material, and wrapped it around Santana's shoulders.

"You don't have to do that," she protested.

"Yeah I do," Brittany said.

Something about the gesture, the way Brittany lifted her hair out of the way, pulling it free from the jacket, the way she gently adjusted it around her shoulders... it made her feel so taken care of, so cherished. A glow like embers flared up in her, spreading throughout her body. The warmth didn't come from the jacket, or the alcohol, that much was clear. It came from some primitive, feminine part of her that no one else in the world had ever reached.

Brittany wrapped her arm around her as they started walking again. Santana leaned into her. After a brief spell of silence, she sighed. "I missed that feeling so much when you weren't here."

"What feeling?" Brittany asked.

"Just... being your girlfriend." That wasn't quite what she wanted to say, but she couldn't think of how else to phrase it.

Brittany seemed to understand, though. She pulled her even closer. "I know what you mean."

They continued on down the moderately busy street, Santana keeping an eye out for any kind of trouble. She'd learned by now that if they maintained a quick pace, stayed in lighted areas, and didn't make eye contact with anyone, getting home from the subway on foot wasn't particularly scary. But it never hurt to stay vigilant. And some things you just had to learn to ignore, like the hooker lounging around the entrance to the liquor store they passed now, who must have either been having a slow night, or was simply not very picky when it came to customers. Because as they walked by her, she lazily seemed to size up their relationship to each other, calling out, "Want to make it three, girls?"

Santana kept her eyes forward, as if she hadn't heard a thing. But when they'd gotten a few paces away, Brittany glanced back over her shoulder, curious.

"Britt," Santana said, nudging her.

"I'm just looking," she muttered, reluctantly turning back around. Then she had another idea. "Hey, do you think she would let me interview her for my film?"

"_No_," Santana said firmly, pulling her along.

After another few blocks, Brittany slowed at an intersection, checking the street number. Santana started to cross, since the way was clear, but then noticed Brittany's unwillingness.

"What is it?"

With a look that was excited but secretive at the same time, she grasped both of Santana's hands and pulled her back onto the sidewalk again. "So, okay. There's a reason I wanted to walk home. I have a surprise for you."

"What?" She smiled a little, but nervously. "What kind of surprise?"

"I can't tell you. But... it's just a little ways down this street."

"_This _one?" She looked past Brittany, searchingly, taking in the block in question. It was hard to see much; half of the street lights seemed to be out, whether deliberately or just through neglect. From what she could make out, there were a few buildings with lights on, but also a good number of abandoned ones, boarded up and derelict. There weren't many people around that she could see, which could be taken as a good sign... or wait, was that a _bad _sign? She should know this by now. But the drinks she'd had at the club were still slowing down her thoughts, and the fact that she had Brittany's jacket wrapped around her, her scent enveloping her, wasn't helping either.

"Britt, I don't know about this," she said hesitantly. "I'm not really familiar with this neighborhood. This street looks a little sketchy to me."

The disappointment on Brittany's face was immediate, but she tried to hide it, to be mature. "Oh. I was here during the day, so... I didn't think about that."

"Can you show me tomorrow?" she offered. "When it's light out?"

She considered, but said, "Not really. It's kind of a night thing." She stared down at her feet, then shrugged. "It's okay, we don't have to stop. It's not that big of a deal."

But the very fact that she tried so hard to not let her disappointment show made Santana want even more to give in. And she couldn't deny the fact that her curiosity was killing her. She glanced down the street one more time, her doubt wavering, then made up her mind. "You know what, it should be fine," she said. "We'll just hurry."

"You sure?" Brittany studied her face, trying to tell if she really meant it.

"Yeah. Come on." She took her hand and started down the sidewalk, trying to project an aura of calm assurance.

As they continued along, however, that aura was more and more difficult to keep up. This place was not exactly where anyone would hope to find themselves in the middle of the night, especially if they didn't live here. Maybe not even _if _they lived here. In one of the buildings they passed, there came the sound of someone pounding on something, probably a door, and a woman's response of muffled, hysterical shouting in Spanish. Somewhere up ahead a car stereo was blasting rap, and even from here she could feel the reverberations of the bass in her chest. A pit bull lunged at them from behind a chain link fence, causing even Brittany to jump. Santana gripped her hand tighter, hoping they hadn't made a mistake. The street seemed even darker as they continued on toward a vacant lot, stepping over a used condom in the middle of the sidewalk.

"How much further?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"We're here," Brittany said. "Close your eyes for a second."

She looked around, confused. "It's already dark."

"Come on," Brittany urged her, with a cute face that was impossible to resist. "I promise I won't let you fall."

Smiling a little, she gave in. "Okay." With her eyes shut, she felt even more strongly the remnants of the alcohol in her system, a slight sense of vertigo, like she was plunging into a tunnel. Luckily she still had Brittany's hand, or she actually might have fallen. Now Brittany took her entire arm and gently guided her forward a few steps. She walked in blindness, trusting that the path was clear. Then she felt herself being turned to the left, and instead of broken pavement under her shoes, she now sensed gravel and weeds. Were they in the vacant lot? Where the hell was Brittany taking her?

After a few more steps, valiantly resisting the urge to peek, she felt herself turned around, then Brittany was standing behind her, her arms wrapped comfortingly around her.

"Okay," she said. "_Now_."

A little nervous about what she might discover, Santana slowly opened her eyes. Then, leaning back against Brittany, she looked up and gasped.

It was the last thing she would have ever expected to find here. Seeming to float suspended in the air above her were bright, glowing, colorful cascades of rainbows and hearts and... butterflies? In all different shades of blue, green, yellow, pink, and purple, they blazed out into the dark night; a dazzling, almost hallucinatory display, like something from Fantasia. She traced the pattern inward, following with her eyes the flight of the butterflies and the paths of the rainbows to the centerpiece - one giant heart in the middle of all the rest with the ornate, calligraphy-style initials B and S linked together inside of it.

For a few seconds Santana couldn't figure out exactly what it was that she was seeing; it was like an optical illusion. How could such brightness and beauty be hanging over a dark alley in a run-down section of Sunset Park? Then her eyes adjusted a bit more, and she realized that what she was seeing was actually graffiti - or more accurately, graffiti done with what looked like expensive, glow-in-the-dark spray paint. It was so dark here that at first she hadn't even noticed the side of the building the display was painted on. But how the hell was it so high up? Three stories, at least.

"Britt," she breathed in wonder. "It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like this, anywhere in the city. Did you _do _this?"

"Not really," she said against Santana's hair, sounding pleased. "I mean, I bought the paint, but then I paid some guys who were hanging out on the street to do it, a few days ago. And when they were done they taught me this cool handshake and said that if anyone ever messed with me they'd have my back." She paused, musing on this. "I think I may have accidentally joined a gang. But it was worth it."

Santana laughed a little. "It was definitely worth it." She continued gazing at the building. "I can't believe you made them do butterflies."

"Yeah, they charged extra for that." She examined the side of the building, proud yet critical of the work. Sounding a bit embarrassed, she said, "But I just now realized that BS also stands for something else, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't matter," Santana assured her, putting her hands over the top of Brittany's arms where they rested against her middle. "We know what it _really _stands for."

Brittany nuzzled into her neck in appreciation.

"So... is this part of my un-birthday present too?" Santana asked, curious about what exactly had prompted such a big romantic gesture.

Brittany considered the question, but then said, "Nope. It's just... because."

In reply to this, Santana turned around so that she was facing her. She could just barely make out her features in the dim light, but the glow from the colors on the side of the building seemed to catch and highlight the blue of her eyes, refracting their light like ice crystals. They both leaned in to the kiss at the same time, drawn together like magnets. Santana let her eyes fall closed a second time, the warm, centering pressure of Brittany's lips on hers the only thing that kept her anchored against the dizziness. She could fall into this, let herself go and keep plummeting until there was nothing in the world but Brittany's mouth, her skin, her scent. But then with regret, she gently put her hands on Brittany's shoulders and opened her eyes, forcing herself to pull away before it could get out of their control. It wasn't the time or the place for a quickie, even a romantic one.

"Britt, this is _so _amazing," Santana whispered, sincere. "I can't believe anyone would do something like this for me. But we should probably get out of here now."

"I know," she agreed. "But I just want to get a few seconds of footage of it, for my reel. Do you mind?"

"Okay," she said. "But hurry."

Brittany pulled her camera out, which explained why she'd insisted on bringing a full-size purse to the club, even tipping the bartender to keep it safe and stashed away for her. Santana had assumed she was storing makeup or something, but she wasn't surprised to discover it was the camera she'd wanted to keep with her. Lately she'd been taking it with her everywhere, just in case.

Turning it on and quickly finding the right setting, Brittany passed the purse to Santana to hold, then lifted the camera to her eye.

On impulse, Santana now stepped closer and held onto her from behind, their positions reversed from a moment ago. Standing on her tiptoes, she breathed lightly against the edge of Brittany's ear. In response, she felt her shiver just a little.

"It's kinda hard to hold the camera steady when you're doing that," she warned her, but smiling in spite of herself.

"I know," Santana whispered, now giving a seductive nip to her earlobe, her fingers at the same time trailing from Brittany's hips around to her lower abdomen, meeting in the center. "Later when we watch it and see the picture shaking, we'll have fun remembering why."

Brittany giggled and made a concerted effort to focus on what she was doing, continuing to film. Santana, as well, continued her attempts at distraction, brushing her hair off her shoulder and applying gentle suction at the base of her neck.

"You should see the colors through here," Brittany said in a soft voice, sounding awed. "It's like they're just floating in the air. The building disappears." She shivered again, maybe from the vision she was seeing through the lens, or maybe from the hot pressure of Santana's lips now creeping steadily up her neck, but more likely a combination of the two. After a minute or so she lowered the camera, an expression of gradually dawning realization mixed with reverence on her face. "I think maybe I found it," she said softly. "I didn't think I would, I thought she was crazy. But I think I found it."

With reluctance, Santana raised her head up enough to murmur, "Found what?"

"The magic."

Puzzled, Santana started to ask what she was talking about. But something, she wasn't even quite sure what, made her turn her head to the side. Farther down the alley, about a block away, someone was walking in their direction. Fast. She lowered herself down from her tiptoes, alert now, and suddenly, completely sober.

"Britt, we really need to go now."

"Okay," Brittany said dreamily. But it took a few seconds for her to lower her gaze from the wall, to turn the camera off.

Santana watched, while trying not to look like she was watching, as the figure in the distance came nearer. It was a guy, she could tell by now, not just from the bulky hooded jacket, but from the way he moved, chest forward, aggressive. And all of a sudden, as he raised his head and caught her eye, she realized that he wasn't just aware of them, but that he was in fact heading toward them, deliberately.

With brilliant clarity, the stupidity of the situation they were in right now struck her. The fact that they were in this unfamiliar neighborhood, on this street, in this fucking empty lot. The fact that it was after midnight, that they'd been drinking. The fact that they were dressed up, wearing sexy clubbing clothes, wearing jewelry. The fact that they were idly standing here, in a place they didn't belong, like tourists, with a camera out, _filming the side of a fucking building_. She experienced a surge of absolute mortification at her own idiocy, at what that idiocy could mean for the two of them. And all the while the guy continued toward them, not slowing his pace.

"Britt," she choked out, reaching out to grasp at her, clutching her arm. Finally, Brittany looked up, maybe alarmed at the tone of fear in her voice. And now she saw him too, and Santana felt her stiffen. "Don't make eye contact," she managed to whisper, ducking her own head. She gave Brittany's wrist a tight squeeze, because she was still looking down the alley. "_Brittany_!" she hissed again. Now she looked down, at the gravel beneath their feet. But it was too late to make any difference - not that it probably would have made a difference anyway. Why wasn't anyone else around? she wondered frantically. In a city of eight million people, she had never felt more alone in her entire life.

Time was distorted, and the guy's approach seemed to take forever, but at the same time to be happening with lightning speed. Santana heard him before she saw him, because it was hard to see anything when you were staring at the ground. His steps slowed, then stopped, a few feet behind them. They still faced the building, as though they could somehow make the whole thing go away by simply pretending they were still absorbed in what they'd been doing, that they didn't notice.

But now he was coming around in front of them, and there was no use keeping up the ruse anymore. Her mouth dry, her knees already feeling like they could buckle, Santana glanced up, hoping that maybe somehow she'd gotten it wrong. Maybe _he _was the tourist, maybe he wanted directions. But even before the thought had made it all the way through her mind, she could see that it was wrong. He was no tourist. He was, in fact, just a kid - seemingly no older than fifteen or sixteen, and most likely Hispanic. And he looked scared as hell, like it was the first time he'd ever done this. But mixed in with the fear was determination.

For a second he only stared at them as if expecting them to make the first move. Maybe he didn't know English? Should she try to speak to him in Spanish? Santana wondered. Would that make her seem more relatable, less like the privileged middle class kid from Ohio who had no business hanging around the dark alleys of this neighborhood? She opened her mouth, but there were no words there. She couldn't think of a single Spanish word, not one. It was as if she'd never known the language at all.

But she realized now that he wasn't looking at her, anyway. He was looking at Brittany. He made a gesture with his head, at the same time reaching into his bulky pocket, as if preparing to draw something out. _Oh God. Oh my fucking God._

Even though it felt like she couldn't move, she found that she _was _moving, instinctively stepping forward, attempting to put herself in between the guy and Brittany. But she was too late, because Brittany was already stepping in front of _her_, blocking her, even holding one arm out slightly as a kind of barrier, as if she would physically keep Santana from moving forward.

Her mind raced ahead, like she was seeing the future. _He's gonna tell her to give him the camera. He's gonna tell her to give him the camera, and she's going to ask if she can take the memory stick out first. Because she needs it. Because she's applying to film school. She's going to try to reason with him, and she's going to get us killed._

But almost before this scene had played out at warp speed in her terrified thoughts, Brittany was already in the process of doing exactly the opposite. She was stepping forward, slowly, calmly, and she was holding the camera out to him. Offering it to him, in fact, before he'd even said a word to demand it, before he'd had the chance to pull out a gun or a knife or whatever it was he was threatening to take from his deep pockets.

"Here," she said softly, the words almost inaudible to Santana over the rushing of blood in her ears.

Surprised, maybe a bit caught off guard, the kid nevertheless reached out and snatched the camera out of her hand. Then he licked his lips, nervous, and glanced behind him.

Emboldened by his first easy success, he turned to Santana, now speaking his first words in this whole nightmarish exchange. "Your purse," he mumbled, his voice cracking like he'd only recently gone through puberty.

At first she thought she was going to have to argue with him, was going to have to endanger them even further, because she hadn't brought a purse tonight; she hadn't wanted to worry about it getting lost or stolen at the club. But how could she explain this when she now couldn't seem to remember any English, either? Then it occurred to her, like something in a dream, that she was holding Brittany's purse. Slowly, she took it off her shoulder, trying not to make any sudden movements. She held it out, but she was too far away, and he wasn't stepping closer.

The three of them stood there frozen in an uncertain tableau, nobody wanting to make the next move. It might have been funny, or at least absurd, if it hadn't been so terrifying. Santana could tell that Brittany was contemplating taking the purse to pass it to him, and to stop her from doing this, to stop her from going near him again, she started to move forward herself.

But before she could convince her feet to obey her mind, suddenly, out of nowhere, a blinding white light swept around the side of the building and washed over the kid's face. He squinted in surprise, then raised his arm to his eyes and took a few hasty steps back.

Bewildered, Santana turned to see where the light was coming from. There was a car - a taxi, of all things - pulling into the vacant lot where they stood.

She turned back to the guy, regretting taking her eyes off of him for a second. But he wasn't there. He'd spun around, thrown off his game by the sudden intrusion, and was already dashing off with the camera clutched to his stomach, back down the alley he'd come from. She could hear the panicked echo of his sneakers slapping the broken pavement.

The bright light now reversed its path, sliding back along the wall and then slipping out of the lot entirely, and with a jolt, Santana realized the car was backing up, turning around, preparing to leave.

She grabbed Brittany's arm. "Come on." At first it felt like she was moving through wet sand. Her legs didn't want to work. But after a few steps it became easier, and she pulled Brittany along with her.

The cab had now backed all the way out into the street again, and was facing the same direction it had just come from. It was starting to move away. But they reached it just before it picked up speed, Santana smacking one hand against the side of the back window enough to startle the driver into stepping on the brakes again.

Without hesitating another second, she pulled the door open and ushered Brittany inside, then slid in after her, slamming the door shut and leaning back against the seat, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might explode.

"Off duty," the driver said in a Middle Eastern accent. He looked at them through the rearview mirror, waiting for them to get back out.

"We only live about ten blocks away," she told him. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue felt like sandpaper. "We're not getting out."

"Off duty," he repeated stubbornly, probably already irritated that he was in Brooklyn so late.

Santana's indignation flared up, mixed with a sense of desperation. Language had failed her moments ago, but now her words, and her attitude, blessedly came back to her. "_Really_, Abdul? That's interesting," she told him. "Because I wonder what Homeland Security would think about you lurking around off-the-grid alleys in the middle of the night. Since I didn't see any customers around, and since I'm pretty sure you'd have to go up to Flatbush to buy your rancid yogurt and your creepy goat kebabs, I can only assume something fishy was going on. Of course, it was dark, I couldn't tell for sure, but did I maybe see some bomb-making equipment back there?"

He studied her in the mirror, trying to gauge whether the threat was worth taking seriously. Apparently deciding not to mess with her, he grudgingly demanded their address. She gave it to him, feeling like a shitty person, but not regretting it. She'd already failed Brittany once tonight. At this point, she didn't care what it took, she would do anything to keep her safe. And she wasn't going to allow either of them to set foot outside of this vehicle until they were as close to their own building as they could possibly get without driving through the front door.

Finally, the driver eased out into the street and headed south. Now they were back in familiar territory, and there were other people around. Letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, Santana leaned back a bit into the seat. For a few seconds she stared only at the seat back in front of her. Eventually, she turned her head to look at Brittany, for some reason dreading what she would find.

Brittany was facing forward too, but she seemed to be staring through the seat, rather than at it. Her gaze was distant; stunned.

Santana reached across to her, trying to take her hand, but Brittany's hands were clamped between her knees. "Hey," she said softly.

With what seemed to be a great effort, Brittany tried to focus, dragging her gaze back

"Do you want to call the police?" she muttered, hopefully too low for the driver to hear.

Brittany only considered for a few seconds before she shook her head, saying softly, "No. They'd never find him. Besides... he didn't even technically steal it. I gave it to him."

"That's true," Santana said, as though somehow it made things less scary, which it really didn't. Improvising, she added, "You know, I don't even think he had a weapon, he was just bluffing. The kid was more scared than we were."

Brittany watched her, doubtful. "Then why are you shaking so bad?"

She didn't have an answer for that. Instead, she tentatively reached across the short distance of the seat that separated them, trying again. This time, Brittany gave her her own hand, and they threaded their fingers together and squeezed hard. For the rest of the short ride home they didn't let go, even when the cab driver cast a quick disapproving look into his rearview mirror.

They didn't let go when they got out, either - not on the sidewalk, not on the stairs to the fourth floor, not even while Santana unlocked their apartment door, which she managed to do with one hand while Brittany clasped her other hand in both of her own. Only once they were inside the apartment, the door firmly locked behind them, did Brittany drop her hand and draw her arms around herself, as if withdrawing into a shell. But Santana maintained contact by putting her hand on the small of her back, guiding her for the second time that day toward their bedroom. On their way there she noticed with relief that Rachel's door was closed and that there was a dim glow of light coming from the crack underneath it, so it appeared she'd made it home safe from wherever she'd stormed off to. After what had just happened to her and Brittany, the entire city seemed more dangerous than ever before, even though she knew that wasn't actually true.

Once inside their own room, she closed the door behind them and flicked the light switch on. But Brittany immediately reached over and flicked it back off.

Santana stood, waiting in the dark, trying to make sense of this gesture. Brittany was still standing beside her, just barely revealed by the faint illumination that leaked around the corners of their heavy violet curtains from the streetlamps and neon signs outside. Santana could hear her slow, measured breathing - the kind of breathing someone only used when they were trying not to give in to panic.

"I'm so stupid," she whispered, leaning back against the closed door, the words so soft they were almost indecipherable. "_I'm so stupid_."

"Brittany," Santana said, reaching out to touch her. "No." She shook her head, adamant, even though it was probably too dark for Brittany to see it. "Don't say that, _please_. I don't ever want to hear you say those words," she begged. "Do you have any idea how proud of you I was? You did exactly the right thing. I was the one who froze up like an idiot."

"It was all my fault," Brittany went on, as though she hadn't even heard Santana and was talking to herself. "It was my idea to paint that building, and it was my idea to take you there at night. All of it was my fault."

"It wasn't your fault, it was mine," she insisted. "I should have known better."

There was a brief silence, then the whispered question, "Why should you have known better, and not me?"

Carefully, realizing how that had sounded, Santana tried to backtrack. "Because I've lived here longer. And..." she trailed off, unsure how to finish.

"And what?"

"That's all," she said firmly. "Because I've lived here longer. I knew we shouldn't have been on that street so late. But we'll never make the same mistake again, and we're _fine_," she insisted, a tinge of desperation in her tone. "It's okay." She repeated it, trying to convince herself as much as Brittany. "Everything's okay."

"No, it's not. It's not okay. I could have gotten us killed. Or... or hurt really bad." Brittany's voice was strained, and she seemed to avoid raising it only with an effort. In the dark her words had an unusual force and clarity. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't even know who I am anymore. I tried to find the magic, and look what happened. I tried to fight for you..."

"To fight for me?" Santana interrupted, confused. "Why would you need to fight for me? I'm right here."

When Brittany didn't answer, and it began to seem like she wasn't going to, Santana kissed her, knocking her head back against the door, cutting off the possibility of more words that would probably only be as heartbreaking or as incomprehensible as the ones that had come before. She kissed her hard enough to cut off the words and almost hard enough to cut off her breath, both Brittany's and her own. At first there was nothing; no response, no reaction. It was like she was kissing someone under hypnosis. But then, thank God, she felt her giving in to it, reluctantly at first, but then with more pressure. She felt Brittany's hands come up to settle on her hips, then her waist, then steadily creeping higher. She grasped her waist in return, and after a few seconds tugged her away from the door and toward the bed.

Backing up, Brittany's legs hit the edge of the mattress, and she lowered herself slowly, in a trance-like motion, pulling Santana down after her without breaking their ongoing chain of kisses. She settled back against the pillows, and Santana moved with her, balancing with her knees just between Brittany's legs and her body against hers. Finally she broke away and raised up to hover inches above her in the dark. Something clenched in her heart, because she realized Brittany was crying; silently, but she knew it all the same. Was there anything in the world, _anything_, that could more easily tear into her very soul like the fact of Brittany crying?

Desperate to make it stop, she kissed all over her face, through the sticky tracks of her tears, following them back to the damp edges of her hair, her ears, her throat. Then she gradually, almost tentatively, moved back to her mouth for another, deeper kiss that was half an apology, half an entreaty, a prayer. The tears were still coming, she could feel the fresh warmth of them sliding down Brittany's cheeks, she could taste the salt on her lips.

"Tell me what to do," she whispered against her mouth, pleading. "Tell me what you want." _Do you want anything? _was the unspoken question. _Please, please want something. _Her fear was that there was nothing she could do, nothing at all. That whatever had just happened out there in that dark alley had broken something between them, had cast them into separate tunnels, and that they would have to struggle to find their way back to each other.

Brittany lay unmoving. She lay without responding, eyes closed, for so long that Santana began to think she had no answer at all, or that maybe, unbelievably, she was already asleep. But then she drew in a deep, shaky breath, and her hands came up off the mattress, where they'd been resting lifeless at her sides. She gently pushed Santana's hair back behind her ears, then ran her thumbs lovingly over her cheeks. It was only then that Santana realized there were tears on her own face, as well. Brittany pulled her down, drawing her in for another kiss that was delicate and strangely chaste in its softness. Then Santana felt an almost imperceptible pressure on her shoulders, guiding her, pointing the way. She took the suggestion right away, relieved.

In the dark she shifted her weight and kissed downward along Brittany's neck, lingering at the hollow of her throat, feeling the pulse, the steady but oddly slow beat of it, letting the miracle of it wash over her. Was it safe to love someone this much? Probably not. She stilled and closed her eyes and wished she could stay there forever, feeling the warm throbbing heartbeat against her lips. Then with a sense of regret, she withdrew and leaned back, gently tugging Brittany's shirt over her head. Returning to just below the spot she'd left off, she continued in a meandering path down along her collarbone, over the swell of her chest. Her fingers whisper-traced the edge of her bra and around to the clasps underneath, but before she removed it she let her tongue follow the path her fingers had taken along the scalloped cups, delaying the moment. Finally she unhooked the bra and pulled it from her. For a brief second she lowered her head and let it pillow there, feeling the slow rise and fall of Brittany's breath underneath her. By this point her breathing would usually be picking up pace, her pulse quickening. But tonight she still seemed distant, detached.

Without breaking the contact of their skin Santana rolled her head around, resuming her pattern of kisses, circling the perimeter of one breast as she moved toward the center, kneading the other at the same time and then sweeping her fingertips in a smooth, practiced, light-as-air stroke down her abdomen. Only now did her nipples suddenly harden under the insistent suction of Santana's mouth and the brief but firm pressure she applied from her teeth. She felt rather than heard Brittany gasp during one particularly sharp tug, but still, _still _she hardly moved underneath her. Was she denying herself? It was almost as though she felt like she didn't deserve any of this.

Before continuing her slow progress south, Santana took a second to straighten her back and tug off first her borrowed jacket, and then the dress she'd worn tonight, a tight, almost obscenely short red one that Brittany had picked out before they left. Did it fall into the guidelines she'd set for non-vintage items? Of course it didn't. She'd known even when she made the rule that she'd wear whatever Brittany wanted her to wear, and she hadn't argued when she'd been handed what looked like an artifact from one of Tina Turner's early shows. Kicking off her shoes as she tossed the dress aside, she lowered herself again and started with her own chest against Brittany's, making an undulating, whole-torso caress downward. Only now did she feel the first flicker of heat in herself. But she barely registered it, because this wasn't about her, not at all. This was about saying with her body what she was so pathetically incapable of saying with her words.

Brittany still lay almost motionless beneath her, her legs against the bedspread, her ankles limp and not hooked together behind Santana's thighs the way they usually were at this point. This lack of movement made Santana move even faster, more urgently, kissing down the middle of her abdomen, darting her tongue around her navel. She felt Brittany's stomach muscles ripple, just the slightest bit, like a tremor before an earthquake that was so subtle it could almost go unnoticed. Then all was quiet again. She unfastened the tight black jeans Britt had worn tonight, tugging them down, accidentally-but-not-really scratching her thighs with her fingernails as she did. With this prodding, Brittany stirred herself to raise her hips a few inches from the mattress, and Santana yanked the pants, along with her underwear, the rest of the way off in a fluid motion. Usually that would be a two-part process, but she had the sense that she was running out of time and needed to prove something before she lost her chance.

She picked up where she'd left off, dragging her tongue down past her lower abdomen, then along the trimmed wispy trail between her legs. Nudging Brittany's thighs apart, since she wasn't doing it on her own, she transferred her attentions over to her inner thigh, pulling the soft skin into her mouth in suckling kisses that on any other night would have had Britt's muscles quivering in anticipation, would have had her squirming on the bed and making more noise than she technically should have been in this tiny apartment. Trying to coax that reaction now, Santana moved by slow degrees higher and higher, but the room remained heavy with the weight of silence. When she at last reached her center she slowed even further, teasing her with just a few more light, dainty kisses before she began what felt, tonight, like an act of devotion. Of worship, even, as unholy as that might sound.

She breathed Brittany in, lavishing on her the practiced and familiar techniques, the particular rhythms and loving strokes she liked to think she'd become an expert at. This act, this tender intimate passionate act, was the closest connection to another person she could imagine possible. So, why, then, at this precise moment, was she suddenly overcome with the visceral memory of what it had felt like to be without this, all those months in the fall? That absence loomed up like it had just happened, like it had been only days ago. The ache was fresh again, which made no sense, because Brittany had been here for months. She was _here_. She was right here against her lips, against her tongue, the scent and the taste of her overpowering and intoxicating and more precious than anything else on this earth, and she wasn't going anywhere. Was she?

She closed her eyes tight against the piercing sadness, wondering if it was somehow being transmitted from her to Brittany, or maybe the other way around. And still Brittany remained so quiet beneath her, so limp and nearly lifeless, so unlike the thrumming live wire she usually became at this point in their lovemaking. Santana wondered if she was still crying. _Baby_, she thought but didn't say out loud, _please_. She didn't know exactly what she was begging for.

Always at these moments, always, they felt so close, almost as if they were sharing one body. But not only did it not feel like that right now, Santana was beginning to feel like she was the only one in the room. And the loss of that connection was somehow even scarier than what had happened in the alley earlier. What should she do? Give up, and just hold her? Making one last effort, without warning she inserted two fingers and hooked them upwards, savagely. Brittany responded with a startled-sounding moan, and her muscles tightened against Santana's hand, jolted as if by an electric shock. For a split second she worried that she'd hurt her. But then, at last, Santana felt a tickling pressure at her temple, and suddenly Brittany's fingers were winding into her hair, grasping a handful of it, tugging on it almost painfully. Instead of giving in to it, she pulled against the pressure, doubling her efforts with her tongue.

Now there was all the movement that had been lacking before, as Brittany writhed against her, her body coming back to life, her pulse picking up speed. After a minute her thighs rotated outward, as far outward as they could go, and her hips arched off the bed, her torso going rigid. Santana moved with her, that part of the rhythm, at least, familiar and comforting. Then her legs swiveled back and her thighs clamped down, holding Santana in place, and it felt like the sweetest reward possible. Brittany's ragged breathing was muffled by the warm pressure against her ears, but not completely drowned out. Santana pressed upward harder with her hand, feeling Brittany's shuddering body reverberate against her mouth.

The spasms gradually lessened in force, dying out into aftershocks. Santana stayed with her, coaxing her down gently. This was always her favorite part, but even more so tonight, because she felt like she'd narrowly averted some kind of disaster, like she'd brought Brittany back from some dark place she'd been in danger of slipping into. But had she really? Was that expecting too much from sex? She kissed back up her body, retracing her earlier path, and then settled her head next to Brittany's on the pillow. With a lingering sense of unease, she tried to make out her profile in the almost-black room, letting one hand lazily stroke her bare stomach, gliding through the beads of sweat that had gathered there. She didn't want to risk breaking their touch. She waited, tense.

When her breathing slowed, Brittany rolled her head around on the pillow and inched closer, their foreheads now touching. She bumped her nose against Santana's, then hesitantly sought out her lips. The kiss deepened, and Santana felt Brittany's body press into her, while one hand began what seemed like somewhat of an obligatory slide down to her ass, then around to her hip, the fingers hooking under the edge of her thong.

But Santana reached down and pulled the hand back up between them, grasping it with her own and pressing a kiss against the knuckles, whispering, "It's okay." There was relief mixed with gratitude in her tone.

"Santana- "

"No, shh, let's just go to sleep." She pulled the comforter up and around their shoulders, as if to settle the matter. "You've got a big day tomorrow. We're both exhausted."

Brittany didn't protest. She kissed her again; a slow, lingering goodnight. Then she took one more deep, hitching gulp of air, her body relaxing as she let it out. She let Santana stroke her hair back from her temple, her eyes falling shut and her breathing deepening.

After a few minutes, assuming she was already asleep, Santana stilled her hand and then drew it back toward her, carefully turning onto her side, fitting herself into the warmth of Brittany's curved body. With a deep sigh, she closed her own eyes. But before she drifted off, she heard Brittany speak again into the darkness, the words soft against her ear.

"I love you."

Santana clenched her teeth together, her throat muscles suddenly tight. It took a few seconds before she knew her voice wouldn't betray too much emotion.

"I love you too," she whispered.

Brittany pressed even closer against her, draping an arm over her, and Santana clasped it to her chest. Within moments, they were both asleep.

* * *

><p>It was early, she knew even before she opened her eyes. Much earlier than she would usually wake up on a weekend, and especially on a morning after she'd been out late. She wondered if something had pulled her up out of sleep, some unusual noise or movement. But when she stirred and checked the spot in bed next to her, she found that Brittany still slept soundly.<p>

Santana held herself as still as possible, watching her in the faint early light that seeped around the edges of the curtain. She was reminded, just a little, of how she'd watched her sleep on the very first morning Brittany had been here, after their middle of the night reunion back in January. Of course, they'd been across the hall, in the smaller bedroom then. But, she realized now, they'd taken the same sides of the bed in this slightly larger room, as if by instinct. Without even thinking about why, she assumed they would probably always take those same sides, in every bed they slept in for the rest of their lives. And she hoped there would be many.

The lines of Brittany's face were smoothed, evened out by the peacefulness of deep sleep. She lay on her side, her face nuzzling into the pillow a little, her hair loose and tangled over her shoulder. Santana watched as the blanket rose and fell in a slow, almost indiscernible rhythm with her breathing. Last night's emotion and the chilling few minutes that had triggered it seemed a distant memory. Santana's mind wanted to take her back there, to play out what had happened, to contrast it with _this_, with the miracle of Brittany's perfect, peaceful form across from her in bed. But she refused to allow it. She wasn't going back into that darkness, even in her thoughts. Because as she watched Brittany sleep, she was coming to a decision. Or maybe it was more like a resolution.

And what she resolved was simple, really. Maybe even cliché. She resolved that everything was going to be different, starting today. Starting today, she was going to do everything right. She was going to be the model of the perfect girlfriend. She was going to make sure Brittany never felt unsafe, or insecure, or God forbid that word she'd come to hate so much, _stupid_... ever again. She was going to stop obsessing over the finer details of _love _versus _in-love, _stop questioning how her relationship compared to other people's. She was going to accept what she had and quit worrying about whether it was enough. She was going to make sure Brittany knew that it was enough.

What had happened had been awful, and terrifying, no doubt about it. But she was going to look at it as an opportunity for a fresh start, a forced reminder of what really mattered. And to kick off this fresh start, she decided as she lay there, she was going to begin by making her girlfriend breakfast. Brittany had her film school campus tour this morning, and what better way to give her a little extra boost of confidence than by a romantic breakfast in bed? She'd noticed offhandedly that Rachel had brought home fresh strawberries yesterday from a farmer's market, some of the earliest of the season. She would borrow (okay, steal) those; the symbolism would be a nice touch.

But what else? Strawberries didn't really go with eggs. Then it came to her. In the kitchen was a practically new waffle iron that they'd bought from a home shopping channel on impulse in the messy aftermath of Kurt's breakup with Blaine, and had so far only used twice. This morning, she vowed to make it three. What could be more romantic than waffles with fresh berries? And if she couldn't quite figure out how to use the damn thing, she would just haul Kurt out of bed and make him help her. She was still a little pissed at him for his sermonizing yesterday, anyway.

But when she'd pulled herself from the bed, careful not to wake Brittany, switched her dried-out contact lenses for her backup glasses, and cracked the door open, she thought at first that she wouldn't have to bother with waking Kurt up. Because here he was already, for some reason coming out of Rachel's room at the crack of dawn.

But wait.

The hallway light was dim, and as her eyes adjusted a bit more, she saw that this wasn't Kurt. This guy was too tall, and too broad, and too _naked_. This guy was... Jesse St. James.

Not noticing her, he continued on into the living room, totally nude, carrying his clothes with him. For a second she remained where she was, open-mouthed with shock, then eased the door closed behind her and followed him. _What the hell is this? _Had she actually just stumbled upon the aftermath of a Rachel Berry booty call? Could such a thing even exist?

Morbid curiosity getting the better of her, she put her breakfast plans on hold and followed him into the living room, expecting a little moment of embarrassment when he realized he was being observed. But in the brighter light coming from the front windows, when he finally became aware of her presence, he didn't express much surprise or worry. In his typical laidback manner, he simply looked up and greeted her with, "Oh, Santana. I didn't expect to see you up this early." Then, without bothering to turn aside, he pulled on his boxers, in no rush at all.

She crossed her arms in front of her, matching his ability to ignore what should have been an uncomfortable situation. "Yeah, I guess you just never know who you're gonna run into on your walk of shame." Raising her eyebrows, she pointed out, "Although for a walk of shame you seem pretty damn proud of yourself."

"Shame?" he repeated, sounding distracted. "I'm not ashamed of anything. Rachel and I had a lovely evening, capped off by an impromptu romantic duet on the subway. People threw money, and condoms. It was flattering."

"How nice for you. Of course, generally _romance _doesn't involve so much sneaking out at the crack of dawn. At least not in my experience."

He gave her a half-listening smile as he tugged his pants on, then slipped into his shoes. "Is there coffee, by any chance? I prefer French press, but standard brew will do in a pinch."

She continued to watch him dress like he was some sort of insect she couldn't quite classify, waiting a second before answering. "No."

"Ah. No worries, I'll stop at the corner." He pulled his shirt over his head, careful not to do too much damage to his hair. Then, smoothing his clothes down, he inspected himself. Happy with what he saw, he looked at Santana, as if to ask what she thought of his appearance. It was only then that he seemed to really notice her for the first time. "You know, the glasses look good on you," he told her with an appraising squint. "You should wear them more often. It's what one might call the Latina Tina Fey look." Amused by himself, he amended this to, "_Latina Fey, _if you will."

She gave him a smirk that wasn't fooling anybody. "Well, now that you've said so, Jesse, I will make sure to _never ever _do that."

He returned her fake smile. Finally catching a bit of the awkwardness, he checked his watch and said, "I should be going."

He headed toward the front door and she remained where she was standing. But after a few seconds of deliberation, she hurried after him, pushing the door closed just as he opened it and leaning against it in a faux-casual manner to block his exit.

"Hey, Jesse?" she said, looking up at him. "Before you go, let me ask you one little question. How much do you like your balls?"

He blinked at her, seeming to think he must have heard wrong. "I'm sorry? My...?"

"Your danglers, your _cojones_," she elaborated, making a fondling gesture with her fingers. "See, the reason I'm focusing on Pebbles and not Bam Bam is because I got a little lookie-loo back there, and... you know what, it's okay, no judgment, I'm just gonna assume that you're a grower, not a show-er. We all have our shortcomings. But to get back to the point, on a scale of one to ten, how much would you say you appreciate your marbles?"

He opened his mouth to say something, obviously baffled, but she continued on.

"Because I'm guessing that it must be an eight, maybe even a nine. The amount of product in your hair makes me think it can't possibly be a ten. But it's a high number, we can agree on that."

"Santana, I really have no idea what- "

"Then let me be clear here," she interrupted in a low voice, now stepping closer to him. "If you fuck with her head again? If at any point in this little fling there are raw eggs involved, or any other food-related missiles, or emotional manipulation of any kind happening on _my _watch? If I have to see her cry and sing into a hairbrush when she thinks no one's looking? I will have no choice but to end you." She gave him a sweet smile that couldn't possibly have fooled anyone, and then a meaningful glance downward. "And I'll let you guess which parts will be the very first to go."

At last, success. He looked worried, she could see it in his eyes. And maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she could detect a bit of grudging respect there, as well.

But he quickly recovered his veneer of casual charm. "Good to see you again," he told her. "It's... always an experience to remember."

Confident that her message had gotten through, she gave him another smile and stepped out of the way, letting him through the door. "You have a nice day," she said, waggling her fingers after him. "Good luck with that coffee!"

She closed the door and then locked it for good measure. Well, _that _had been an unexpected little interruption. She brushed her hands together at a job well done, pleased with her success. Apparently it was a perfect morning for more than one kind of fresh start. Then, in a good mood, she headed toward the kitchen, ready to attack that waffle mix, but no... before she got started, there was one more detour she had to make. It might not have been the noblest impulse, or even the wisest impulse, but to hell with it. It was too tempting. She might never get another chance.

Swinging wide the door of Rachel's bedroom, she entered without knocking, catching her just as she tugged a t-shirt over her head.

Rachel turned around, alarmed and then immediately annoyed when she saw who it was.

Santana gave her a broad, delighted grin. "Rise and shine, Miss Cheater McCheatyPants. I _so _love the smell of dirty sheets and hypocrisy in the morning, don't you?"

"_Santana_! Close the door!" Rachel whispered. "What are you even doing up at six o'clock in the morning?"

"Oh, just call it divine providence," she said, without bothering to close the door. "Someone upstairs was looking out for me and making sure I got to see this. Kinda makes me want to start going to church more often."

"Would you keep your voice down?" Rachel hissed. "As you may recall, I'm not even supposed to be talking to you right now." She looked past Santana into the hallway, as if afraid she would be caught.

"Oh, please, if you think I'm gonna let _that _keep me from getting my gloat on, then you're insane. You know how long I've been waiting for you to fall off your prissy little pedestal?"

"What pedestal? Since when am I on a pedestal?" She was still whispering, but furiously, tugging on a pair of yoga pants. "I'm only human."

"So, how was he? Not that you have much to compare it to, but I want details." Santana picked up a stuffed floral pillow from the floor and tossed it back onto the ravaged bed. Then she righted the framed photo of Olive and Greta, which was face-down as though the poor old broads couldn't bear to witness what had taken place here. Still not lowering her voice, she added, "I'm a little surprised I didn't hear anything, actually. Somehow I always pegged you for a screamer."

But before she'd straightened the photo or even finished the sentence, Rachel had grabbed her by the arm and yanked her through the doorway with surprising strength. She was then pulled down the hall, past the kitchen, to the front entryway, then through the front door that she'd only just locked. "Where are we going?" Santana asked, bewildered. She vaguely entertained the idea that she was about to be thrown out of the building.

But in the hallway outside the apartment, Rachel opened the door to the roof and went up, looking back once as if to say _Are you coming or not?_

Amused by this necessity for secrecy, Santana followed her up, emerging into the soft, cool early morning air. The sky was pearly gray, the sun not quite up yet, and the day promised to be beautiful. A cluster of pigeons exploded upward into flight upon their arrival, softly burbling their indignation at being disturbed. It was hard to believe that last night, just a few blocks away from here, she'd been terrified for her life, and Brittany's. In the fresh morning light it seemed hazy, unreal, like something she'd only imagined or dreamed.

Rachel crossed over to the ledge at the front of the building, standing there with her arms folded and her back to Santana, as if she didn't even care enough to check and see whether she'd followed or not.

"Look, I get it," Santana said, approaching. "That feeling you're having right now? It's called guilt. That's what happens when you cheat." She shrugged, blasé. "You'll get used to it."

"You don't understand." She still didn't turn.

"Sure I do. And I'm not gonna judge, if that's what you're worried about."

But no, there was no fun in that. She'd been cut off from mocking Rachel for almost an entire week - that was a lot of time for words to build up. "Okay, maybe just a _little _judging," she admitted. "I mean, God knows, I won't be signing up for the presidency of the Finn Hudson fan club anytime soon, but still... this is sort of shitty, you have to admit. He's down there in the middle of nowhere hanging with his lame janitor friends, probably flogging it to free porn because he's too broke to buy the good stuff, and meanwhile you're up here seducing his cartoon villain arch-nemesis through subway duets with what I can only assume was some kind of cheesy eighties power ballad. It's actually sort of poetic." Then a realization struck her. "Oh my God. _Jesse's _the used car salesman Amelia saw you with a few weeks ago. I thought she was crazy. So, how long have you been stepping out?"

"It's not what you think, okay? I didn't cheat." But the look on her face as she stared down at the street wasn't exactly innocent.

"Oh, I see, so it was one of those _platonic _naked sleepovers. Those are great, aren't they? I remember me and Britts used to have those all the time." Then she pretended to think, raising one finger to her chin and wrinkling her forehead. "No.. no wait, we _didn't_... because we were too busy having sex."

Finally, Rachel spun around. "Santana, I realize it goes against all your instincts, but would you please for once in your life just _shut up_ and listen to what I'm trying to tell you!"

Taken aback by the violence of these words and by the expression on Rachel's face, she _did _momentarily shut up. When a few seconds had gone by and still there was nothing, she urged her in a more serious voice, "I'm listening."

But now that she had the chance to speak, Rachel didn't seem to know how to choose her words. After a long pause, she forced herself to try. "I didn't cheat, because..." She tried again, even quieter. "Because Finn and I aren't together. We broke up."

Santana continued to stare at her, shocked into silence. "_What_?" she finally sputtered. "When the hell did this happen?"

"That's not really important..."

"_Rachel_," she interrupted her. "When?"

Refusing to meet her eyes, Rachel was even more reluctant now. Hardly above a murmur, she said, "Over winter break."

If Santana had been shocked before, now she was even more astounded. At first she thought it must be a lie, or even a joke, but Rachel's face was too somber for that. "Are you fucking kidding me? That was four months ago!" She knew there was really no excuse for the anger in her tone, but she couldn't keep it out. "You're telling me you've been keeping this quiet for four months? How is that even possible? You have your menstrual cycle posted on the refrigerator, but _this_, you manage to keep private?" She waited, then demanded in dismay, "Why didn't you say anything?"

Rachel closed her eyes for a second. "I don't know. At first, I planned to... and then, you were just so excited about Brittany coming. There was never a good time." This had the air of a rehearsed excuse, and looking up, she could see that Santana wasn't really buying it. "And, okay, if you want the truth, maybe I just didn't want to deal with the jokes and the mockery."

Now the anger died out of Santana's voice, to be replaced by something closer to startled hurt. "You think I would have made fun of you? After something like _that_?"

The answer was quiet, almost tentative. "Can you honestly say that you wouldn't have?"

She considered, not entirely sure whether she knew the answer to that question. She thought the answer was no, but the fact that someone else was so certain it wasn't made her doubt herself.

Rachel went on, as if trying to mitigate the accusation. "Look, I know you can't help yourself, it's just who you are. Most of the time it doesn't bother me anymore. I even enjoy our occasional witty repartee. But I just didn't think I could take it. Not then, not when it still hurt so bad."

Santana stared at her own bare feet, uncomfortable, not knowing what to say.

"I don't need you to feel sorry for me," Rachel added quickly. "I'm perfectly capable of doing that on my own. Besides, the worst is over now. I'm fine."

"Jesus," Santana muttered, still in disbelief. "Just when I thought you couldn't get crazier." She paused. "But you told Kurt, right?"

"Actually, no." She looked off toward the buildings across the street, sheepish. "I think he may suspect, but... he hasn't been too pushy about it."

For some reason, this answer made Santana feel better, even though it probably shouldn't have. But at least she hadn't been the only one kept in the dark. "So let me get this straight. You, the biggest drama queen on the planet, decided for some unfathomable reason to go through a huge, painful breakup _completely _on your own?"

Rachel seemed to consider which answer to give, but then opted for the truth. "Not completely. Quinn knows."

"_Quinn_!" An unexpected and annoying stab of jealousy hit Santana. And even though she knew it was lame and beside the point, the only thing she could thing of to say was, "She doesn't even _live _here."

"I'm aware," Rachel said, with a slight smile at the absurdity of this remark. "That's what made it easier, actually. I could compartmentalize it. I could talk about it on the phone, but then put it in a box and get on with life." She shrugged, adding, "Anyway, I didn't have much choice. She was in Lima for Christmas when it happened, and I couldn't hide it from her. I was a wreck."

Santana tried and failed to suppress her bitterness. "Yeah well, you seemed to do okay hiding it from _me_."

Rachel considered, then suggested hopefully, "Maybe my acting skills are improving."

_Or maybe I just wasn't paying any attention, because I'm a self-centered bitch_, Santana thought. Because it probably should have been obvious. In hindsight, a lot of things made more sense. Rachel's desperation to get the lead in the NYADA revue, and her devastation at being passed over. Her desire for a fresh look. Her constant need to be around other people. "God, is this why you've been so clingy for the last few months?" she asked.

Rachel looked awkward. "I prefer the term _affectionate_. But yes, I suppose so. It's easier not to think about it when I'm with you guys. But of course, now that I'm technically not supposed to speak to you..." she let the words trail off, the implication obvious.

"Yeah, about that," Santana said, apologetic. "Telling Brittany no is something I haven't really figured out how to do yet. I'll get there eventually. But you might have to be patient a few more days." Sheepish, she added, "Or weeks."

"It's okay, I understand," Rachel said. She couldn't help adding, "But I do miss talking to you."

Uncomfortable, Santana chose to ignore this. But Rachel was quiet for so long, and stared down at the street with such a wistful expression, that she was finally forced to ask, "Are we doing a musical number in your head right now?"

Rachel rolled her eyes a little. "_No_." But the denial wasn't entirely convincing. She took a deep breath and turned away from the ledge, gathering her resolve around her. "All right, here's the thing. I can't say I'm devastated that you found out about this. Maybe it was time. But I do have a favor to ask." She stepped closer, earnest. "Can you _please _not tell anybody else? Not even Kurt or Brittany? At least not yet. Neither one of them is good at keeping secrets, and I don't want this getting back to our families."

"What? _Why_?" Santana looked at her like she was crazy. "What difference does it make?"

She took a few seconds to consider how to answer, choosing her words with care. "There's only a few weeks left until summer vacation, and we... Finn and I... we may end up working things out. We're um... we're thinking about a trip to Niagara Falls. It's supposed to be one of the most romantic places in the world, right?" There was something sad about the hopefulness she forced into her tone. "So really, you know, what would be the point of announcing a breakup now, when we may be so close to getting back together? It would just cause a lot of unnecessary drama... which normally, I would be in favor of," she admitted. "But not this time."

She stared at her, baffled. "Rachel... that's pathetic." Knowing the words were probably too harsh, she continued anyway. "I know you don't want to hear it? But you deserve better. Maybe it's time to get your head out of your ass and accept that this is a good thing."

She looked away, defeated. "I know you don't like him..."

"That's not why I'm saying it," Santana interrupted. But deep down, she didn't know if that was true or not. When it came to Finn, she couldn't exactly claim to be unbiased.

"I have to give it one more chance before I move on for good," she argued.

"And how's that worked out for you in the past, that _one more chance _thing?"

"This is different. This is the last one." And there was something about the way she said it that made it clear that this time, she really meant it. But still Santana wavered. Rachel met her eyes again, pleading. "What if it was Brittany?"

She started to say that it wasn't the same, that Rachel had no idea what she was talking about, that this kind of thing could _never _happen to her and Brittany. But she stopped herself. Under the circumstances, it would probably sound too much like gloating. And despite the fact that she couldn't begin to fathom what Rachel saw in him, it was impossible to deny that the depth of her love for Finn was real. Incomprehensible and gross, maybe, but real. If you loved someone that much, you couldn't just stop trying.

Grudgingly, she was forced to give in. "Okay, whatever, I get it," she said, but without enthusiasm. "I won't tell anyone, if that's what you want."

"Is that a promise?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I promise."

"Thank you." Rachel let out a deep breath in relief. She started to say something else, but then seemed to change her mind, maybe deciding not to press her luck. Turning away, she was on the verge of heading back to the door, but Santana felt like there was still something more she needed to say, something nagging at her. Just in time, she realized what it was.

Abruptly, speaking to Rachel's back, she blurted it out. "I never would have said any of that stuff if I'd realized. Just so you know."

Rachel paused and turned back toward her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, all the shit I say about him every day. The fat jokes, the stuff with the parrot, my brilliantly witty insults... _all _of it. If I would have known what was going on..." she stopped, frustrated. "Do you think I don't care about you at all?"

Rachel came back a few steps. "Honestly?" She spoke in a delicate manner, but the words hurt nonetheless. "Sometimes it's hard to tell."

"Yeah, well, I'm _sorry_. This stuff isn't easy for me. I don't wear my heart pinned to the sleeve of my hideous sweaters the way you do. But it doesn't mean- " she cut herself off. She swallowed hard, then went on in a voice that would have sounded angry to someone who didn't know better. "It doesn't mean I don't feel anything."

Rachel seemed touched, but also just the slightest bit guilty. "I know that," she assured her. "I didn't mean to- " She tried again. "Of course I know that."

"And you can believe what you want, but just for the record, I wouldn't have made fun of you. At least not about _that_." She started to speak, bit back the words, and then allowed them out in a quiet rush before she could retrieve them again. "Other than Brittany, you and Kurt mean more to me than anyone in the world."

It was obvious how much these words meant to Rachel, how surprised, how moved she was by them. She looked down quickly, as though trying to hide it. She nodded, then said softly, "I believe you."

Horrified at herself, Santana blinked against tears that seemed to spring of nowhere. Only now realizing she was still wearing her glasses, she reached under them and tried to brush the tears away covertly. "Damn it," she muttered, embarrassed. "Now who's pathetic."

"Don't... _don't_ do that." Rachel shook her head warningly, her face crumpling. "Santana, you know crying is like yawning for me, it's contagious." Already cracked with emotion, her voice continued to rise to a squeak that possibly only dogs could hear. "If you do it, I have to do it too."

"All right, you know what, let's just get this shit over with," she said, gesturing her forward impatiently. By now, it was inevitable anyway. To hell with it.

Rachel wasted no time coming forward and throwing her arms around her before the offer could be revoked. Santana hesitated, then awkwardly raised her own arms and settled them around her back. She couldn't remember if they'd ever done this while sober before. After what she considered a reasonable interval, she tried to pull away, but nope, Rachel was apparently making up for lost time, and she wasn't letting go yet. With a weary sigh, Santana put her arms back in place and gave into it.

And okay, it wasn't _that _bad. Sort of nice, actually. Not that she would ever admit it to anyone. Closing her eyes, she leaned her cheek against the side of Rachel's head, realizing suddenly that this weird mixture of protectiveness and frustration, of love and annoyance... this must be what it felt like to have a sister. Not that she'd ever particularly wanted one of those. But she couldn't claim that she'd wanted to be gay, either, and she wouldn't trade her relationship with Brittany for anybody else's easy straight existence. Sometimes life just had a way of throwing crap at you that turned out to be exactly what you'd never known you needed.

Still, though, it was terrifying, this whole business of letting other people into your heart. The more crowded it got in there, the more you opened yourself up to other people's hurts, the more vulnerable you were. It was so much easier, only looking out for yourself. And on that note, did this breakup news mean the thing with Jesse might turn into something more than just an illicit booty call? If so, did that mean she would have to apologize for threatening his balls? No, she decided. Serious relationship or not, the warning still stood. It would keep him on his best behavior.

Trying to lighten the mood a bit during this apparently interminable hug, she said over Rachel's shoulder, "I can't believe you passed up the chance for all those epic emo post-breakup duets we could have had."

Rachel sniffled next to her ear. "Believe me, that was the hardest part."

Santana laughed a little, and Rachel finally pulled back, returning her smile. But before they'd completely separated, Santana felt her stiffen, saw the smile freeze and then fade from her face as she stared at something behind them. "Oh no," Rachel said in a small voice.

Alarmed, Santana turned to see what it was.

In the doorway to the stairwell, still barefoot and in a fuzzy bathrobe, Brittany stood watching them.

Immediately, Rachel dropped her arms, detaching herself completely. She stepped away from Santana, in a way that only made things look more suspicious. "Brittany!" she said in a loud, falsely cheerful voice. "I know what this looks like, but I- I wasn't breaking the rules, because I wasn't _really _talking. It's just that, um... we were rehearsing a scene for my movie, and we were in character." She glanced at Santana nervously, as if to see whether she would play along with this absurd story. "So that doesn't really count, does it?"

For a long time Brittany only stared at them, not answering. It was difficult to read the expression on her face. "In character as who?" she finally asked.

"Well... as ourselves," Rachel explained. "But, the _earlier _versions of ourselves." Thinking fast, she had a flash of inspiration. "At graduation! Remember, backstage after the ceremony, how emotional everyone was?"

"Rachel," Santana said, giving her a quick shake of her head. _What the hell are you doing? _she wanted to ask. She would do her best not to break the promise she'd just made, but she wasn't going to watch Brittany be treated like an idiot, either.

Brittany seemed to make a note Santana's reaction as she continued to watch them, arms crossed. In a strangely flat tone, she said, "Actually I don't remember that graduation stuff, because I wasn't there."

Too late, Rachel realized her mistake. "Right," she said. "Sorry." She looked at Santana again, who was offering no help at all. She started to say something else, then seemed to realize she was only making things worse. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I have to get ready for class." Quickly, she brushed past Brittany, making her exit.

Brittany turned to watch her leave, then slowly brought her gaze back to Santana. Rays of sun were just appearing over the tops of the buildings to the east, touching her hair with a buttery glow.

"Do you think someone should bother to tell the spaz that it's Saturday?" Santana asked, in what she knew was a poor imitation of her normal style.

Ignoring the question, Brittany posed one of her own. "What's going on?"

She came toward her, shrugging. "Nothing, really. Just, you know... her usual sky-is-falling drama. It has nothing to do with me."

Brittany stared at her in disbelief. "You were _crying_."

Realizing that this was true, and that the evidence was still apparent, she pulled her glasses off and brushed her palm over her face. But she couldn't think of what to say without giving away the idiotic secret that didn't even need to be a secret. "Maybe just a little. Everything's okay, though," she assured Brittany. But when she still waited for more, Santana added, "It's complicated."

"Yeah." All at once she seemed to give up, looking away from Santana as if it didn't matter anymore. "It seems like everything here is complicated."

Santana was unnerved by the distance in her voice. Why did she look so defeated? All of a sudden her plans for starting over fresh seemed to be in danger of crumbling at her feet before they'd even had a chance to be put into action. Was moving on too fast from what had happened in that vacant lot a bad idea? Maybe it would be best not to avoid it. "Brittany," she said gently. "I know last night was really scary, and..."

She cut her off. "I don't want to talk about last night. It happened, and we're fine, and there's nothing else to say."

"Okay. We don't have to." Confused, she tried to figure out if she was misinterpreting the cause of Brittany's current mood. Did the rule about Rachel not talking to them really mean _that _much to her? How long had she honestly expected it to last, when they all lived piled on top of each other?

"Good," Brittany said, but without sounding particularly relieved. "Because I don't want to," she repeated. Then she turned and headed back down the dim, shadowy stairwell and into the even darker hallway.

Santana followed after her. "Britt," she said, reaching out a tentative hand to touch her arm before she could reach the apartment door, trying to make her stop and turn around. "I didn't think you'd be up so early. But I was gonna make you this big, fancy breakfast, for a surprise. I just got a little sidetracked."

"Yeah, I noticed," Brittany said wryly, pulling her wrist back in toward her body and crossing her arms. "Don't worry about it, I don't really have any appetite." She considered, nodding to herself as she said, "Actually I think I'll just go ahead and get dressed and go. I can look around campus a little before the tour."

"What, you mean by yourself? I thought you wanted me to come with you. We were gonna do this together."

Brittany spoke as if her mind was already made up. "I don't know, I don't think it's a good idea. I have to get used to doing stuff on my own, you know. You can't just hold my hand through everything. Because one day you're not gonna be there, and then what am I gonna do?"

Santana felt suddenly queasy. She still held her glasses in her hand, rendering the hallway and Brittany as well in indistinct outlines, a bit blurry around the edges. "What do you mean I'm not gonna be there?" When Brittany didn't meet her eyes, she stepped closer, both to see her better and to get her attention. "Hey. What's going on?"

Finally she looked up at her. "You tell me, Santana."

But before she could reply, or ask for more details that would hopefully shed light on whatever weird and ominous thing was taking place between them right now, Mr. Nguyen came out of his adjacent apartment in his bathrobe. He headed toward the stairs, on his way down to the lobby to wait for his foreign-language newspaper delivery, which he did every morning to make sure his paper wasn't stolen, even though no one else in the building spoke Vietnamese. He gave them a polite nod as he passed between them, but in the awkward silence their focus was broken, and to Santana's frustration, Brittany used the opportunity to turn and let herself back into the apartment.

She remained where she was for a moment in the quiet hallway, the only sound the retreating shuffle of Mr. Nguyen's slippers as he made his slow progress down the stairwell. Though she didn't quite understand where they were coming from, Brittany's last words made her feel hollow. She had the sense that she'd done something terribly wrong, and that whatever it was, even if it was escaping her comprehension at the moment, it was something that she wasn't going to be able to fix. All the stuff that had been building up for weeks, all the stuff she'd been trying to ignore, or had even succeeded in ignoring... was this the punishment for it? Had the reckoning finally arrived?

Because if she was the kind of person who for months couldn't even be bothered to notice that one of her closest friends was going through a miserable, painful breakup, what else had she not noticed? In her desperation to pretend everything was okay, which part of Brittany's heart had she broken, without even realizing it? For a split second she wondered if she'd forgotten her birthday, if she'd been reading the calendar wrong. What if it wasn't next week, what if she'd already missed it? But no, that was stupid. She knew when her birthday was; she kept better track of it than she did of her own. It was something else.

She quickly cast her mind back over the scene that had just played out, and then farther back to last night, to what she'd said, what she'd done, weighing vague possibilities against each other. Then she started to go even farther back, but no. This was pointless, and a waste of time. She would just _ask _her, for fuck's sake. She would make her say it out loud, which is what she should have done long ago. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Santana let herself back into the apartment.

But now that the decision had been made, there was the problem of timing. Because it clearly wasn't going to happen this morning. Brittany was busy getting ready to leave, and with Kurt and Rachel likewise bustling around in their usual obnoxiously peppy morning routine, she couldn't seem to get a minute alone with her. And maybe it was her imagination, but Brittany seemed to be doing her best to avoid just this possibility. She even got dressed in the bathroom instead of their bedroom, despite the fact that this delayed Kurt's gel-application process by a precious five minutes, a countdown he first politely and then with increasing panic announced to her from the other side of the door.

Santana hovered near the front entry, planning to grab a word with her before she left, but through canny maneuvering Brittany managed to be ready at the exact same time Kurt and Rachel left for their rehearsals for NYADA's version of year-end finals. The two of them glanced at Santana standing in the living room doorway, still in the pajamas she'd thrown on this morning before her ill-timed rendezvous with Jesse. Rachel's eyes flitted nervously from her to Brittany, trying to work out what had happened after she'd left the roof, but Kurt only seemed puzzled.

"See you this afternoon," Brittany said casually as she adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag, without quite looking at her.

Santana waited a second too long for the reply to sound natural. "Yeah," she said. "Good luck."

Kurt started to say something, but after a meaningful look from Rachel decided against it. In an awkward silence, the three of them left together.

So... that was that. Refusing to spend any more time racking her brains and making herself crazy over trying to figure it out, Santana made a massive effort to put it all on the back burner, to be dealt with later. She distracted herself by getting ready for school. It was Saturday, but she had a final scheduled for early this afternoon. She'd planned to go straight from Brittany's campus tour to her own campus, only a few blocks away. But now, with hours to kill, she might as well show up early and try to cram in some extra studying. Hopefully it would be easier to focus in the college library than in this empty, silent apartment.

But it wasn't, she soon found. Because even when she was there, in that particular muffled, intense quiet of an academic setting, it seemed to only get harder and harder to concentrate with each minute that passed. By the time she arrived in the designated classroom and sat down for the test itself, she'd forgotten almost everything she'd spent the entire week studiously memorizing. She stared down at the exam booklet, the strange terms of biology rendered meaningless to her. She forced herself to focus on one question at a time, trying to convince herself that this stuff mattered. But she couldn't quite seem to remember _why _it mattered. And with every minute that passed, she felt more and more anxious, like she needed to be somewhere else, right away.

About midway through the exam, already knowing she'd blown every question she'd attempted to answer, she gave up. _Fuck this. _ Her relationship was more important than the difference between a species and a genus. Not even bothering to take the test to the front, she stood, and amid surprised looks from the other students, gathered her things and walked out of the room, leaving the exam booklet abandoned on the desk. The anxious feeling was only getting worse. And if she left now, she reasoned, maybe she could get a chance to talk to Brittany privately before Kurt and Rachel got home from their rehearsal.

Back in Brooklyn, she let herself into the quiet apartment. She started toward the bedrooms on the left, but something made her turn back and glance into the living room. Surprised, she saw that Brittany was here already. She was on the couch, with the TV switched off, and in her hands was the Rubik's cube she'd stolen from backstage at NYADA. In the silence she sat idly turning the panels, and for some reason she couldn't pinpoint, the sight of the damn thing made Santana wary. It looked like Brittany was killing time, like she was sitting in a doctor's waiting room. But what was she waiting for?

Slowly Santana came to stand in the doorway. Brittany looked up, and a brief sign of worry flickered across her face. Then she glanced down at the toy again. "You're home early."

"Yeah, the test was cancelled," Santana lied. "Automatic As for everyone." She came further into the room. When Brittany didn't look up again, or say anything else, she asked, "How was your tour? Did you talk to the admissions people?"

With obvious reluctance, Brittany finally said, "I didn't go."

"_What_? Why not?" Then she made an effort to sound supportive, not judgmental. "I mean, it's not really a big deal. You can reschedule it."

Brittany shrugged, still without looking up. "I don't even have a camera anymore, so... Seems kind of pointless to think about film school."

The defeated tone in Brittany's voice made her all the more determined to sound positive. "Well, as luck would have it, we just got you a new one, for your birthday. What are the chances, right?" She sat down on the edge of the coffee table, in front of Brittany. "It was supposed to be a surprise, but whatever. It should be here next week. And it's so much better than that ghetto one you've been using. It cost a fortune," she couldn't help bragging.

"Who's _we_?" Brittany asked.

"What?"

"You said _we _got you a camera."

"The three of us," she said, like it should be obvious. "Me and Kurt and Rachel."

"Oh." Brittany seemed to be speaking to the Rubik's cube. "Of course."

Santana gave her a strange look. "What's that supposed to mean?" Growing impatient when there was no answer, she said, "Would you put that stupid thing away and look at me, please?"

Grudgingly, she stopped messing with the toy and raised her eyes to meet Santana's.

But she almost wished she hadn't insisted, because the look on Brittany's face alarmed her. There were so many different emotions mixed up there, too many to decipher all at once. Hurt, and confusion, and anger, but also a kind of pleading. For _what_, though? And was it just Santana's imagination, or were her eyes red around the edges, like she'd been crying?

This was it, then. This was really fucking _it_. There was no putting it off or ignoring it or edging around it any longer. Santana took a deep breath, at long last forcing out the terrifying words that she'd been avoiding for so long.

"We need to talk."

"Yeah," Brittany agreed with a tiny nod. "I think we do."

But then, instead of immediately beginning, she stood up and moved away from the couch, over toward the bird cage. Santana remained where she was, watching her. Even though it was an odd moment to be thinking of such a thing, she was struck by how beautiful Brittany looked right now. It seemed wrong, somehow, that a person should look so beautiful even when she was unhappy... but there was no denying that in this case it was true. Her sorrow threw off a kind of radiance, and her silhouette against the light from the front window had a timeless quality. It was Brittany, but at the same time it was someone older, unfamiliar. It was like getting a glimpse of what she might look like in the future, if life turned out to be less than what she'd expected. Disturbed, Santana dropped her gaze.

She waited for Brittany to begin, but now she had her back turned, refilling the food tray in Monty's cage. So she decided to take the plunge herself.

"What was that about this morning?" she asked her softly. "Why did you shut me out like that?"

Taking her time, Brittany finished what she was doing before she turned back around. Crossing her arms, she considered her answer carefully, but then replied with another question. "Is there something going on with you and Rachel?"

For a minute Santana was too stunned to respond. She stared at her, uncomprehending. "_What_?"

"Because Millie says there is. She says she knows for sure that something happened. And she thinks it'll happen again," Brittany went on, relentless, like someone determined to get an unpleasant job over and done with. "At first I thought she had to be wrong, but now, after that stuff on the roof, I don't know what to think anymore. And I know you weren't rehearsing a scene, because Rachel's a really bad liar."

Santana stood up, her mind reeling with too much new information at once. "Wait... you've been hanging out with Amelia? I thought we talked about that, Britt. I told you she's insane!"

"I know you did. But I never promised I wouldn't see her."

She thought back to their conversation in the park, trying to remember if that was true. "So you just decided to do it behind my back?"

"I'm sorry," she said, but without sounding particularly sorry. "I shouldn't have lied. I just didn't want to have the same argument again about who I'm allowed to be friends with. And... you still haven't answered the question," she pointed out.

But Santana had only just begun to process everything she'd heard in the last few minutes. "God, this explains so much," she said to herself, shaking her head a little. "How could I not have seen it before?" Now she gave Brittany a pitying look. "Sweetie, she brainwashed you."

But almost immediately she realized it was the wrong thing to say, because Brittany flared up, indignant. "Nobody _brainwashed _me, Santana. She just told me what she thought was going on." Looking around, she added, "And it's not just her. I've been getting weird vibes about you two ever since I got here. Pete must have noticed something, too, or else why would he think you were a couple? Even Monty thinks something's up."

"_Monty_," Santana repeated, for a split second unable to remember who that was. "Monty the parrot? Brittany, he's a _bird_. You know he doesn't actually understand any of that stuff he says, right?"

Brittany looked away, muttering, "That's human supremacist, and I find it offensive."

Santana sighed, then attempted to get things back on track. "Okay, you know what? I admit, I thought this whole thing with you hating Rachel was kind of cute and flattering at first, not to mention hilarious as hell. But maybe I should have taken it more seriously." She paused, a new angle occurring to her. "Is this why you made her stop talking to me?"

"Pretty much," Brittany admitted. "And we see how well _that _worked out, so..."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry for ruining your present, but there was..." she stopped, unsure how to explain it without breaking her promise. "I needed to talk to her about something, and it ended up getting a little emotional. I can understand why you thought it looked bad. But there is nothing weird going on. I mean, _seriously_, Brittany? Think about what you're saying."

Brittany was quiet, considering this.

She waited, but couldn't help feeling impatient. "You believe me, don't you?"

"I _want _to believe you. But maybe you're right, maybe I trust people too easily."

Santana stared at her in shock. "I didn't mean _me_."

For the moment, Brittany seemed to have run out of things to say. She looked tired. She turned and moved toward the kitchen, muttering something about grabbing a water. But Santana followed after her, because there was something she wanted to know and she was afraid if she didn't say it right this second, she would lose her nerve.

"Can I ask you something? Why doesn't Amelia bother you? It's been driving me crazy ever since I introduced you. She's the one I dated, the one I _actually _slept with. I mean, she told me she loved me, for God's sake... and you're out getting bagels, or whatever the hell it is you've been doing with her. Why doesn't _that _freak you out? I don't understand how you can be so okay with her."

Brittany shrugged as she closed the refrigerator, as if the answer to this was simple and obvious. "Because she doesn't mean anything to you."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do," she said stubbornly. "I know you, Santana. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself. If she meant something to you, I would be able to tell." She paused, uncapping the bottle. "Rachel means something."

"Okay, yeah, you're right. She does. And you know what? So does Kurt. But I'm not about to go down on _him _anytime soon," she said with irony, adding in an aside, "Unless God forbid I break my leg and get hooked on Vicodin, and then all bets are off, apparently."

Brittany took a sip of her water, then stared at her for a few seconds, expressionless. "Gross." Without another word, she moved off toward their bedroom, and once again Santana found herself following her.

"Oh, come on, Britt, that was a joke." Her imploring voice echoed off the walls of the narrow hallway. "I've never seen this jealous side of you before. I would think it was kind of hot if it wasn't freaking me the hell out."

Brittany continued into their room and moved over to the far side of the bed, near the window, as if wanting to put some kind of barrier in between the two of them. "Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it turns out I'm not perfect." Then she admitted in a small voice, "To be honest, it kind of came as a surprise to me too."

"You know, the funny thing is?" Santana asked, still standing in the doorway. "I thought you would be happy for me. Happy that I have other people in my life now, that I'm not shutting everyone out or chasing them away because I'm so miserable. Is that what you want me to go back to?"

"No. Of course not," Brittany insisted, and in a way that made it clear she was being genuine. She considered, then said quietly, "I guess I just miss the way things used to be. When it was just us. When no one else could get in our bubble and I didn't have to share you with anyone."

Even though Santana knew she should resist the argument, she couldn't help the fact that those words did something to her, struck something deep inside of her that was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes. "I get that," she said in a soft, sincere voice. "I miss it too sometimes. But high school's over, and things are different now, Brittany. We can't go back in time."

"I know that." Brittany looked away, and Santana thought she heard her say under her breath, "_At least not yet_."

Hesitantly, Santana came further into the room, but remained on the other side of the bed, feeling like she should keep her distance. "I don't know what else to say. I told you there's nothing going on, but you still seem upset. I just don't understand why she bothers you so much."

"I don't know either. It's just... It's weird seeing you be so close to another girl." She considered, adding, "I'm sorry, but it just is. Before I got here, I didn't think it would be so weird."

"Why is it weird?" Santana persisted. "I mean, do you think I can't be close friends with another girl without falling in love with her?"

She'd meant this halfway as a joke, but Brittany was serious as she stared down at the unmade bed, contemplating the words. Slowly dawning realization mixed with sheepishness was evident in her features.

"Oh my God," Santana said, bringing her hand to her heart in sudden understanding. "Is that what you _think_?"

Without looking up, she admitted, "It does sound kind of crazy when you put it into words like that."

"Yeah, because it _is _crazy! What happened between you and me was a once in a lifetime thing. It's not gonna be repeated every time I'm friends with someone who has two X chromosomes."

When Brittany didn't immediately reply, she went on, in an effort to set the record completely straight. "Okay, yeah, if we're being totally honest here, then maybe there was like the slightest danger of me getting a little too... I guess the word would be _intrigued_... during this one crazy week in the fall. But it was only because I missed you so much that I was losing my mind, and I thought she was trying to get into my pants..." At the look on Brittany's face, she interrupted herself. "That part's not important. What I'm saying is, things got a little awkward for a while. But you know what, Kurt gave me some great advice about my..." she paused, searching for the right word. "_Tendencies_. And so I went out and screwed a stranger who turned out to be a drug addict, and everything with Rachel was fine after that. So, you see, it was nothing. I know how to handle my issues."

Brittany was staring at her with a mixture of bafflement and dismay. "I don't even know how to respond to that."

Wondering if she'd taken the wrong approach, Santana offered helplessly, "Maybe I'm not explaining it right."

"So you admit it, then. Stuff did happen."

"No, there was no _stuff_. Did you not hear what I just said? I never even touched her! Except for her ankles, but only because she was doing this weird thing to me with her feet." Off of Brittany's look, she hastily raised her hand and corrected, "No-no-no-no, it wasn't like a fetish thing." Then in a more uncertain tone, "At least I don't think it was."

"Okay, I don't want to hear anymore. Please just stop talking about it before I throw up."

"Brittany," she entreated her. "We are talking about the _same _Rachel Berry here, aren't we? I just want to be clear on that."

"Well, yeah... I mean, I hope so. Because if there's more than one, then this whole thing is even more messed up than I thought it was."

"What I'm saying is... Think what you're accusing me of. We're talking about a girl who alphabetizes her Playbills, all right? A girl who describes dairy farmers as _cow molesters_."

"Yeah, and in high school?" Brittany shot back. "All that stuff used to bug you, a lot... but the funny thing is, it doesn't seem to anymore."

She considered saying that of course it still bugged her, but she'd learned how to deal, because that's what happens when you _grow up_. Or that the things that bugged you in a high school glee club seemed a little less important in a city of eight million strangers. But she suddenly felt fed up with offering justifications. "You know what, screw this, why am I even getting all defensive here, when I didn't do anything wrong. This whole thing is ridiculous, I have nothing to feel bad about."

"Then why do you look so guilty?"

Crossing her arms, she fell silent, not immediately able to answer. Because it was true, she did feel guilty. Not for anything she'd done, necessarily, but more so for what she hadn't done - for what she hadn't noticed, and for what she'd been too scared to talk about when she finally _had _noticed it. If she hadn't been so afraid of hearing the truth, if she hadn't been running away from all of this for so long, then Brittany's suspicions wouldn't have had a chance to grow to such a dangerous size.

She started to attempt to explain this, to apologize, but there was something about the obstinacy in Brittany's posture that stopped her, something that now, at the worst of all possible moments, made her pride flare up, made her determined to prove herself right. The mixture of self-righteousness and anger wasn't a new feeling by any means, but when it came to Brittany, she didn't think she'd ever experienced it. Had they ever even had a fight before? This was all so new and strange. She wanted to make everything right, but she could feel the force of Brittany's stubbornness directed against her, her refusal to be reasoned with.

Then suddenly, with what she felt to be a flash of insight, everything presented itself to her from a new angle.

"Hold up, I know what this is," Santana said slowly. She nodded, confident. "Mm-hm, I know exactly what's going on here. You want to leave." She said it like she couldn't believe she hadn't realized it before. "You don't want to be in New York anymore, especially after what happened last night, and so you're just looking for a reason to go. An _excuse _to go. That's what all this jealousy bullshit is really about."

This accusation seemed to get under her skin, which made Santana even more convinced she'd guessed right.

"That's not true. I do want to be here!" Brittany protested. "You have no idea how much I wanted everything to be perfect."

"_Perfect_? I can't give you perfect, Brittany! I mean, what did you think it was gonna be like?"

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, mulling over the answer, taking it as a real question and not a rhetorical one. "Honestly? Like an episode of Friends. Not, like, a Very Special episode. Just a normal one. I thought we would live in this giant bright apartment, and we would all be best friends, and instead of drinking coffee at Central Perk, we would sing and dance all the time. And New York would be clean and safe and people would only use language appropriate for prime time sitcoms." She paused, adding, "I think I was also picturing a live studio audience to laugh at all my jokes... but, I don't know, that part was sort of fuzzy in my head." She added, "But the most important part? You and me would still be _us_. Just us, no one else."

She contemplated her next words, thoughtful. "But it's not like that. It's not like that at all. I mean, yes, we do sing and dance a lot. But this place looks nothing like Monica's, and Pete was like our crazy Chandler but now he's dead, and Brooklyn is scarier than I thought it would be, and if one more person tells me to go F myself? I'm gonna snap and do something crazy. Oh, and also, _our _Rachel is super annoying and looks nothing like Jennifer Aniston. But yet you still have more in common with her and with Kurt than you do with me. Because you're all fierce and driven and talented, and you're gonna be big stars someday. And you all belong here." Her voice became quieter, but at the same time more insistent. "You're New Yorkers. And I'm not."

"You _are_, though." Santana stared at her beseechingly, trying to convince her with her own conviction. "I know you are. I knew it the minute you got here. You just don't trust yourself enough to believe it." She gave her a searching look. "Brittany, you've got to find your confidence again."

"Yeah, well... I think I'm done looking for things, because I was told recently by a person who shall remain nameless that I had to find the magic in this city. And the funny thing is? I did. I really think I did. But then, five seconds after I found it? We got mugged. So maybe that's some kind of sign, I don't know. I just know that I'm so confused right now, and I think..." She closed her eyes briefly, not wanting to continue, but forcing herself to. "I think I need to just get away from it all for a while, and clear my head. I think I need to go back to Lima. By myself."

So, there it was. The very thing she'd been worrying about for weeks, the very thing, Santana now realized, that she'd been subconsciously expecting Brittany to say ever since she'd found her sitting in the living room earlier.

She took a slow, deep breath, and then let it out, trying not to give any hints of distress. Afraid she would betray too much emotion if she attempted more than word, she simply asked, "When?"

Brittany hesitated, not wanting to say. "Mr. Bloom is leaving this afternoon. He said the offer for a ride is still good."

"What_, today_? Are you kidding me?" Now Santana looked around, bewildered, as if afraid he might already be lurking here, waiting to whisk Brittany away. "So that's it then. We have one bad week and you're just gonna pack up and bail?" She moved closer to her, but resisted the impulse to reach out and take her hand, fearing it would seem too desperate. "Britt, this is real life, we're adults now. I know that for a long time things were so easy for us, maybe too easy. It can't go on like that forever. But... this is what couples do, you know? They have misunderstandings, they fight... and then they get over it and move on."

"Well, I don't like fighting." She sounded firm, determined. "I especially don't like fighting with you. It hurts too much. If that's what it means to be a couple, then..."

The words trailed off, but too late to halt the needles of icy fear that worked their way through Santana's veins. She held extremely still for a second before asking, just above a whisper, "Then what?"

Brittany waited just a second too long. Then, "Nothing," she said, already regretful. "I didn't mean it that way. You know I didn't."

But Santana didn't appear to be listening. Now that she was closer to the other side of the bed, she became aware of something, something that had been in plain view the entire time, but which somehow in the intensity of their conversation had escaped her notice. There were two pieces of packed luggage sitting on the floor next to Brittany's bedside table. She stared down at them, thinking at first that she must be imagining things.

"You already told him you would go, didn't you?" she said, looking away from the bags and back at Brittany, in disbelief. "Were you just gonna leave without saying goodbye?"

Miserable, Brittany stared at the bags as she replied. "I hadn't decided yet. But I thought maybe it would be easier that way."

She gave a tiny, mirthless laugh. "Yeah, I guess it probably would have been, for _you_."

"Santana..."

"No," she interrupted her, unable to keep the condescension out of her tone. "You know what, I think you're right. I think you _should _go back for a while. We probably moved way too fast. After all, we were gonna take things slow, right? Maybe you just got in over your head."

She started toward the door, but then turned back around, adding before she could think better of it, "Oh, and also, just for the record? You don't have to worry about me having sexy times with Rachel while you're gone. Because believe me, the last thing I would _ever _do is let myself fall in love with someone else who can't- " With a short gasp, she bit back the words she'd been about to say. But she'd already gone too far for the self-censoring to make any difference.

"Someone else who can't what?" Brittany asked after waiting for Santana to continue. "Someone who can't fall in love with you back?" At first only puzzlement registered in her features, but then, as Santana watched, realization dawned. Brittany looked into the past, remembering. "Are you still thinking about what I said that night on the bleachers? It was almost a year ago."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't feel that long ago to me." In a rush, she added, "And if you want to know the truth, yes, I think about it. I think about it every day." There, it was out. She hadn't planned to say it, she'd decided just this morning that she would _never _say it. But now there was no taking it back.

Brittany was staring at her in a baffled, almost pitying way, trying to comprehend. "I don't understand why words matter so much to you, Santana. I hate words. They're slippery, and confusing, and they don't _mean _anything, not really. They're just... words."

"Sometimes they do, Britt. I'm sorry, but sometimes they mean something."

"Okay, well... if words mean that much, then do you remember what you said to me the very first time I told you I loved you?"

Thrown for a loop by this sudden, unexpected change of subject, for a minute she had no idea how to respond. She made an effort to recall what Brittany was talking about, but at the moment it was too difficult to shift her thoughts in that direction. "I don't know." She shrugged, helplessly. "Probably... I love you too?"

"No." Brittany managed to sound both patient and exasperated at the same time, like someone talking to a small child. The tone of her voice indicated _Nice try_. She waited, giving her another chance, but when Santana still didn't say anything, she went on. "When I told you I loved you, you said, '_Don't pretend this is something it's not_.'"

Santana lowered her head, closing her eyes for a second in shame. _Shit_. Because now she did remember, and she wished she didn't. That thrilling and yet terrifying day when suddenly sex hadn't been just sex anymore... was it sophomore year? She knew it had been far from one of her proudest moments. Maybe that was why she'd temporarily blocked it from her memory.

Unable to think of any real justification, she gave Brittany the simple truth. "I was scared."

"Yeah. I know." She nodded a little, understanding. "And you may find this hard to believe, but... sometimes I get scared too."

"Brittany," she whispered. She wanted to tell her that she knew that, of _course _she knew that. But had she? Had she really known it, or ever stopped to consider that beneath Brittany's seeming self-assurance and ease with their relationship, with _everything_, really, there could be lurking doubts that she'd never even bothered to notice?

Brittany was looking down, refusing to meet her eyes again. Santana drew in her breath, a little shakily, unsure of what to do. More than she'd ever wanted anything in the world, she wanted to hold her. This was all so horrible and stupid and ridiculous. If they could just _touch _each other, if they could just fold into each other's arms and breathe one another in, then this entire last fifteen minutes would seem so small and pointless in comparison, she knew it would. She was on the verge of reaching out for her.

But something was wrong, and her mind wasn't obeying her heart. Because for the first time in her life, she didn't know what would happen when she touched her. What if Brittany resisted? What if she stood there, rigid, unyielding? What if, God forbid, she backed away? If that happened, Santana knew, there would be no going back from it. It would change everything between them, forever. And this conviction paralyzed her, kept her feet rooted firmly to the floorboards, less than a room's distance away from Brittany but as though some kind of invisible wall stood between them.

They were still standing there, the room heavy with silence, when a few seconds later a series of rhythmic, emphatic knocks echoed through the apartment from the front door. Then came Mr. Bloom's muffled yet still audible voice. "Hark, maiden!" he boomed. "Your chariot awaits!" And then, as if unable to help himself, he followed this up with an echoing, "_Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference! _Robert Frost!"

Brittany glanced up, meeting Santana's gaze again, and now that the moment was really here, there was something in her expression that seemed to indicate maybe they could still fix this. Maybe it wasn't too late. _Tell me not to go_, her eyes pleaded.

But Santana looked away, because she wasn't going to do that again, she wasn't going to beg. Things had gone too far this time. And it wasn't her decision to make, anyway. Brittany had to decide for herself. If she didn't, if Santana talked her out of it again, then they would just keep going around in circles with this.

"I'll get the door," she said quietly. "You've got stuff to carry." Then, before she could change her mind, she left the room.

At the front door she paused with her hand on the knob for just a brief second to compose herself, then opened it to a rosy-cheeked and jubilant Mr. Bloom. He rushed in, filling up the small entry, and Santana was forced to step back. She felt rather than saw Brittany appear behind her, and she had a split second of hoping she'd left the bags in the bedroom, that she'd made the decision on her own. But already Mr. Bloom was reaching out to take them, and the hope evaporated almost before it had formed.

"Our journey commences!" he announced, hefting one of the bags to his shoulder. "I can't tell you how glad I am to have a traveling companion, young lady. You can keep me awake. And sober! We'll be like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Like the Friar and the Wife of Bath!" When Brittany didn't seem to appreciate, or even comprehend, these eager examples, he tried a more practical angle. "Shall I take these down to the car, m'lady?" he asked, indicating her bags.

"Oh, um, I guess so," Brittany said, handing over her second piece of luggage with what looked like reluctance. "You don't have to, though."

"Ah, but a gentleman must insist," he said. Then he stepped back, beaming at them. He was dressed in his standard shabby-professorial style, wearing rumpled khakis and a sweater-vest that had seen better days, but in addition to this he had an old-fashioned heavy flash camera strung around his neck, and on his head was a safari hat. It looked as though he and Brittany were going on vacation together. Santana tried to keep her resentment under control, since most of the time she really did like the eccentric old dork.

But she must not have been entirely successful, and since it was obvious that Brittany's spirits were no match for his own, either, his smile faded a bit as he studied their gloom. "Did I arrive too early?"

"No, not at all," Brittany assured him. "You're pretty much right on time." She avoided looking at Santana while she said this.

"Then I have but one request to make, my lass." He gave her a dramatically serious look and stood with his back straight, like he was a knight addressing his royal patron. "It has just come to my attention that I have in my keep rare research materials that must be returned to the public library, the glorious main branch, before I depart this jewel on the Hudson. Do you mind a bit of a detour on our journey into the west?"

Brittany took a few seconds to translate these words into everyday English before answering. "No, that's fine, I love the library. Those stone lions watch me wherever I go. It makes me feel like they could come to life at any minute." Her enthusiasm came only with an effort, though. She sounded like someone doing an impression of Brittany, rather than like herself. But if Mr. Bloom noticed, he tactfully didn't mention it.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "Then I'll just take these down to the car while you say your goodbyes. Take your time, ladies." But before he turned, he gave Santana a keen look, assessing her sadness. He hesitated, then quoted at her, "_O mistress mine! where are you roaming? O! stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know_." He took a second to catch his breath, then announced, "William Shakespeare!"

In response, Santana wrinkled her brow at him in irritable confusion, with absolutely no clue what the appropriate response to this was, or even what it meant. "Thanks?" she offered, wanting him to go away.

He gave her an affectionate pat on the cheek, finally leaving the two of them alone. Brittany watched him go, then turned back.

They stood facing each other, awkward, miserable, not knowing how to begin. This all seemed to be happening so fast that Santana couldn't quite process it. Had it been only yesterday that they were joking about babies? Only _yesterday_? How had they gotten from there to here in just twenty-four hours?

"So..." Brittany said, shifting her weight, looking at her feet. "I don't really know what to say right now. Except for, I'm sorry."

Santana avoided her eyes. She didn't know what to say either, or how to respond to that. Sorry for what, exactly? Looking into the living room, she noticed the abandoned Rubik's cube on the coffee table, where Brittany had laid it aside earlier. Since any distraction was better than none, she stepped into the room and got it, bringing it back.

"Don't forget this." She turned it in her hand, examining it. "Looks like you're getting close. It's gonna blow everyone's mind when you finish it." Her voice sounded numb, even to her own ears.

Brittany reached out and took the toy, but said with sad certainty, "I'll never finish it."

It hurt, as always, to hear Brittany talk about herself like that. But rather than try to convince her otherwise, Santana said, "You'd better get down there before he gets a parking ticket."

"Okay." She sighed, but still couldn't seem to move.

There was a knot in Santana's throat, but her eyes were achingly, almost unbearably dry. This wasn't like this morning on the roof, at all, when the emotion had taken her unawares. This was like something happening in nightmarish slow motion but all too fast at the same time, and it hurt too much for tears. She'd thought their last parting, that June day on the football field, had been hard. It was nothing, nothing compared to this.

She finally forced herself to look at Brittany. What she was thinking was_, I'm afraid if you walk out that door you'll never come back. I'm afraid I'll miss you every day for the rest of my life. I'm afraid there's no one else in the entire world who could ever know me and still love me the way you do. _

What she said was, "You call me the second you get there."

Brittany looked back at her, pressing her lips together in contemplation. Then she moved in hesitantly for what looked like the beginning of a hug.

But as if by instinct, Santana stepped back, shaking her head. "No," she whispered. "I can't." What she meant was that she was afraid if she felt Brittany's arms around her she would crumble, that she would cling to her, desperate, refusing to let go. She didn't trust herself.

Brittany seemed to understand. Maybe she felt the same way. But she didn't seem to know how else to say goodbye. She crossed her arms in front of her and stared down at the floor again, delaying.

"Wear your seatbelt," Santana said. "And I swear to God, Britt, if you let him touch one drop of alcohol..."

"I won't," Brittany said quickly. "I promise." Another few seconds of stalling, then she said, "All right, I'm gonna go. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. See you soon." But she didn't ask when. She was too afraid of what the answer might be.

Brittany turned halfway toward the door, but then on impulse turned back, and, before Santana could evade her, darted forward for a replay of that same chaste peck they'd attempted on the night of Brittany's arrival back in the winter. Caught off guard, Santana closed her eyes as she felt Brittany's cheek brush against her own. This time, unlike on that cold January night, there was no spark of static electricity. Only softness and warmth and the familiar scent of her skin.

It lasted just a brief instant, and by the time Santana opened her eyes again Brittany was already moving toward the door, her head ducked as if she wanted to hide her face. She went out, not looking back again as she pulled the door shut behind her.

Santana stood there by herself for a minute, listening to the overpowering stillness of the empty apartment, hearing the faint receding echo of Brittany's feet on the stairwell. She looked into the living room, and, knowing she shouldn't do it, but unable to resist the urge, she slowly moved over to the front windows, the ones that looked down into the street.

She stared down at Mr. Bloom trying to close his over-packed car trunk, wishing she could do this whole day over again. Or even the last half hour. If she could only rewind the scene just a little bit, just go back to when she'd walked through the door and seen Brittany on the couch, that was all she would ask. She would do it all right this time. She would say the right things, reassure her of her love, not get defensive, not say anything hurtful, not go into any unnecessary detail about things like Rachel's ankles. _Oh God,_ she thought to herself in horror, _did I mention her fucking ankles? What is wrong with me?_

But maybe she'd have to go further back in time to really fix things. How had she not noticed the doubts and insecurities that had been building up in Brittany's mind these last few months? Were other people as terrible as she apparently was at balancing friendships and romance? She was suddenly confronted with the terrifying fact that you could never really know what another person was thinking. Not even the person you loved more than anyone else. She'd made the mistake of thinking they were different, that, unlike the rest of the couples on the planet, they were immune to all the usual problems. Like they had some kind of special soulmate mind-reading ability that would always protect them from days like this one. But they didn't.

They were two separate people, after all. Two very different people, in fact. What if being best friends wasn't enough to get them through this? And what if she'd fucked things up so badly that she'd lost not just her girlfriend, but her best friend, forever? The irony, of course, was that when something hurt this bad there was only one person she wanted to share it with, one person who could make it all better. And that was the person who was stepping down onto the sidewalk now, preparing to get into the car of a man she hardly knew, preparing to leave her, maybe for good.

Mr. Bloom had successfully closed the trunk, and now he'd circled around and was holding the front passenger-side door open, still making a game of his chivalry. Before she got in Brittany glanced up, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, scanning the upper floor of the building. She seemed to be searching for something. Santana stepped forward, her heart giving a lurch of hope. She pressed her hand to the glass, whispering, "I'm here." But the angle of light must have been wrong; maybe there was a glare. It didn't seem that Brittany could see anything, because after a few seconds she dropped her hand in a discouraged way and turned back to the car.

As Santana watched, she climbed into the front seat. Mr. Bloom gave the door a gentlemanly slam, then lumbered around to the driver's side, a spring in his step despite his considerable bulk. He got in, and though she couldn't hear the motor with the window closed, Santana saw the brake lights flash on. Then, all too soon, he was easing out of the parking space, angling into the street. Even though it made no sense, Santana found that she was holding her breath, waiting for the car to stop, waiting for this absurdity to end and for Brittany to get out and come back upstairs. But the car didn't stop. It rolled down the street, picking up speed. Then it paused at the corner, left blinker flashing. It turned, and just before it disappeared from view, she realized something, with an almost physical pang of regret and dismay. _We didn't say I love you._

But it didn't matter how many things she realized now; it was too late. The car was gone. It wasn't coming back.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Now, finally, the tears came.


	13. Chapter 13

Well, this may be a huge mistake, posting this final chapter tonight, after a new Glee (I won't spoil anything if some haven't seen it.) But the timing just happened to work out that way, so I figured I might as well upload it.

I don't even know how to begin to express how much writing this story has meant to me over the last year, or how much fun I've had watching all these crazy scenarios come to life, first in my head and then on the page. Glee has now begun to mirror the story in certain ways that I never would have believed possible last January, but I don't think anything could ever replace this particular universe for me, with these particular characters. (Of course, that doesn't mean I won't still be enjoying the hell out of seeing some of it actually play out on screen.)

I can't say thank you enough to the people who have taken the time to review, even if it's just to point out one line that you enjoyed. I've spent such an insane amount of time on it, and you guys are what makes it worth it. And I want to give a special thanks to everyone who has given me advice, helped with Spanish translations, or just let me bounce ideas off of them - in particular Eli, Ato, and Shanna. Since I don't have a beta, it made the process so much less lonely.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do next... whether a sequel set in this same fic universe, or something completely new. I'd like to continue writing for Brittana, if people are still interested in reading it. Please let me know what you'd prefer.

Wow, I guess there's nothing more to say except... thank you so much for reading! And I apologize if there are mistakes in this. It's very very late, and my vision is getting blurry from looking at it all day.

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><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

She didn't know for sure how long she'd been standing here.

Santana stared down at the street, taking measured deep breaths, willing herself into a kind of numb, hypnotic state. Her face was blank and empty of emotion. At some point, without her noticing, the tears had stopped. Now, if she let her mind drift, she could almost convince herself that she felt nothing at all.

Almost, but not quite.

Behind her, the apartment was empty and silent, with a particular late-afternoon Saturday drowsiness hanging over not just the building but the scene outside the window as well, over the sluggish traffic, over the occasional unhurried pedestrian. The mellow spring sunlight slanted in against her face, and she closed her eyes briefly, letting it lull her even further into oblivion. The city sounds came to her only in the faintest way, like there was a pillow wrapped around her head. Had it been five minutes that she'd been in this exact spot? Twenty? Something closer to an hour? Time had ceased to have any real meaning.

Yet even as she stood there she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this was getting more pathetic by the second, and that she needed to break away, shake herself out of this hopeless lethargy, make some attempt to get on with the rest of the day. But she couldn't seem to face it. Because doing that would mean acknowledging everything that had just happened, it would mean accepting it into reality. She didn't think she could do that yet. So instead she continued to stand there almost without moving, watching the cars pass below, all of them unfamiliar, all of them filled with strangers, none of them bringing Brittany back. But she wasn't really seeing them. Her gaze was unfocused, turned inward.

Almost since Mr. Bloom's car had disappeared from view, her mind had been wanting to take her somewhere that she wasn't sure she wanted to go. It was a memory; a memory sparked by what Brittany had thrown at her just before that fateful knock on the door. The memory of Brittany's first _I love you, _and her own panicked response. How could she have forgotten it? Had she _wanted _to forget it? But obviously the memory hadn't been lost, only misplaced. It was there, safely wrapped up and waiting for her. Because she found that right now, her thoughts kept edging around that whole sorry scene, creeping up to it and then skittering away again like a nervous cat. Eventually she gave into it, because the effort required to not think about it was becoming too great. And if it made her feel terrible, wasn't that what she deserved, anyway? So she gave up fighting it and let it come to her.

It hadn't been sophomore year, as she'd thought earlier; not quite. Now that she had the time and the space to let the memory play out, she realized it had actually been the summer between freshman and sophomore year. That summer, possibly in retrospect the most important of her life, had been almost completely swallowed up by Cheerios - with camp, with exhibitions, with meetings, but mostly with practice. Always practice, every single day, rain or shine. Although by that point the novelty had worn off somewhat after a year on the squad, she'd still been new enough at it, and ambitious enough, that she didn't mind the intense schedule too much. Or maybe it was just that she didn't mind having an excuse to spend nearly every minute of every day with Brittany.

Because over the course of that summer, she still wasn't quite sure how, everything had changed. The particular night it all changed had seemed like nothing special, just a sleepover like so many that had come before. A late practice, a quick phone call home to say she was staying over at Brittany's since it was closer to the field and they had to be back there early in the morning. Then, after showers, relaxing in her bedroom in the bluish glow of the TV screen, probably with some pilfered wine coolers. The exact way it had started was lost to her, but she did know that she was the one who'd gone in for the first kiss, not Brittany. It had shocked her then, and it still shocked her now, remembering.

Nothing more than a simple kiss, like they'd done before, in front of boys. It was their specialty, what they were becoming notorious for among the male McKinley elect. Except that there were no boys here, and that made everything different. After the kiss, after that first daring plunge, it had been almost like a competition, a game, seeing who could go the furthest, who would back down first. A game that started with giggles, giggles that turned into wicked, teasing smiles - but then at some point there were no more smiles, only surprised gasps and shudderings and strangely naked, vulnerable-sounding whimpers. And then afterwards a stunned quiet, the two of them letting their breathing slow under the flowered comforter on Brittany's bed. Pleading the excuse of too much alcohol, Santana had rolled over on that first night and pretended to pass out. But in truth, she had never felt less drunk, had never felt more vibrantly, almost painfully sober and alive in her entire life.

From that night on, it had seemed natural to let it happen again, and again, and then again. It always started without words, without discussion, but instead with a coy glance or a loaded gesture. There were no words at the beginning, or at the end either, and it seemed to work just fine that way. Maybe there were occasional words in the middle, moaned or gasped out in the heat of the moment, but just like the cheers they chanted at practice, those words were meaningless, disconnected from the real world. They were easily forgettable. Or at least that was how she vaguely thought of it, in the rare moments when she let herself think of it at all.

And during that charmed summer, when there was the excuse of Cheerios to keep them together all the time, it wasn't too hard to avoid thinking about it, or about anything else for that matter. It felt like things could just go on like this forever, like nothing ever needed to change. But then one day, toward the end of August and only a few weeks from the dreaded return of school and normalcy, she'd realized just how easily it could all change, how her entire _life _could change, if she wasn't careful. Funny how three little words could threaten so much upheaval.

It had been morning, after another sleepover, this time at Santana's house. For the first time they'd had sex not just the previous night, but again after waking up. Maybe it was because it was raining, making the room even more dark and gloomy than usual. It had just felt like the natural thing to do. It had also felt natural not to move apart right away, or to pretend to be asleep, or to hurry to get dressed. Maybe that was the problem; everything had felt _too _natural. They'd lain there on their sides, staring at each other with an open frankness that was both thrilling and frightening. Santana was fairly certain no one in her life had ever looked at her like that before.

She didn't know what possessed her to do it, but before she could stop herself she'd reached out, gently, and brushed a lock of Brittany's hair out of her face and behind her ear, letting her fingertips linger and cup her cheek for just a second before she pulled her hand back toward her.

Brittany had smiled a little at the gesture, not taking her eyes off Santana's. She'd smiled back, feeling blissfully intoxicated with whatever this thing was between them. And that was when it had happened.

"I love you."

Santana's smile froze, then faded into a look of startled fear. "What?"

Brittany rolled over and stretched, still unworried. As if she thought maybe Santana just hadn't heard, she'd repeated simply, "I said, _I love you_."

She waited a few seconds before replying, her mind racing. Slowly, she sat up, holding the sheet against her chest. "Okay, cool," she said, with attempted casualness. "But, like... as friends, right? Because I'm your best friend."

Now Brittany looked up at her, amused. "Well, duh, of course you're my best friend. Everyone knows that. But... do friends usually do stuff like this?" She indicated the ravaged bed.

"Well yeah, some do," Santana said, knowing it sounded stupid. "I'm sure it's not all that uncommon among people as hot as we are." She turned aside, still shielding her chest without quite knowing why, since they'd never been shy around each other. She began pulling on her bra and underwear.

"That's true, we are super hot," Brittany agreed. "But Quinn is hot too, and I can't imagine doing this stuff with her." She paused, then admitted, "I did have a dream about it once, though. She insisted on wearing a tiara and she wouldn't take off her shoes, and then in the middle of it she turned into a flamingo and tried to bite me. It was so weird, because when I woke up? There were pink feathers in my bed."

Santana wrinkled her brow, giving her a perplexed look, but then attempted to shake off the distraction and get back to the subject. "Brittany," she said, forcing her voice to be firm, even a little condescending. Partially dressed now and not feeling so vulnerable, she turned and stared down at her where she still lay stretched out in the bed. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm so not down for the mushy pillow talk. You shouldn't pretend this is something it's not. Because it's not _anything_."

To anyone who didn't know her so well, the surprised hurt on Brittany's face might not have been so evident. It was subtle, hardly more than the slight lift of an eyebrow, an almost imperceptible flush on her cheeks. But Santana could read her like a book, down to the slightest shift of her mood. "Oh," she said.

"I just don't want you to be confused," Santana went on, torn between wanting to take back her words and needing to emphasize them even more. "I mean, we're straight."

Rather than these words clearing things up, Brittany now looked even more uncertain. "We are?"

"Well,_ I _am." To avoid the puzzled gaze that was still focused on her, Santana turned to her vanity table. "And I'm sure you are too. You've slept with more boys than I have."

Brittany sat up now, thinking, but still unconvinced. "I guess," she said slowly. "It's just that... the stuff we've been doing lately doesn't feel very straight. Especially that thing with our legs. What is that called, anyway? Because I think we should call it the V Smash."

"Look, just think of it this way," she explained as she furiously brushed back her own hair into a ponytail, ignoring the last part. "When we do stuff together, it's the same as when you do stuff alone, only... with company. It's fun, that's all. It's like when people get together to exercise, or to... to knit sweaters." She cringed into the mirror at her own ridiculous examples. "The point is, it doesn't mean anything."

"Oh." Brittany pondered this for a few seconds. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Except... I don't really use my tongue when I'm alone?" Always honest, she'd added, "Maybe I would if I was more flexible." Santana prayed she would stop now, but in a thoughtful tone, Brittany pressed on. "And also there's nobody to kiss when I'm alone. And nobody to cuddle with when it's over. Don't you like it when we do that?"

To say no would have been such an obvious lie that she couldn't go through with it. Instead she'd turned back toward her, exasperated. "Brittany. You're thinking about this too much. Let's not think about it. Or talk about it. To each other, or to _anybody _else. Ever." She said the last part with deliberate emphasis, hoping it would sink in. "Got it?"

Brittany smiled a little, patient. "Got it." But then, almost immediately disregarding the rule she'd just agreed to, she asked, "So... will we have to stop someday?"

The idea of that, of stopping, was more unnerving to Santana than she'd expected it to be. She busied herself with the makeup tubes on her vanity table, hoping Brittany wouldn't see her hands shake. "I don't see why we should." She forced her voice to sound joking. "We can do this our whole lives, even when we're married to the rich and famous men we're supposed to be with. Why the hell not? We'll be each others' dirty little secret. Okay?"

She'd tried not to seem too desperate for the answer, but it took so long to come that eventually she turned back toward Brittany, who she found watching her with a potent mixture of understanding and love, but also disappointment and pity.

"Santana..." she began, tentative.

But something in Santana's face, some fear that she couldn't hide, must have stopped her, changed her mind. Because Brittany glanced down, her words changing direction when she looked back up, her expression reflecting relinquishment. "Okay," she said with soft finality. She nodded a little to confirm it.

Santana took a deep breath, relieved, but at the same time she'd felt like crying. Briskly she stood up and retrieved her shoes from her backpack nearby, avoiding Brittany's eyes. "Well, now that we've cleared up that silly little misunderstanding... I think we should go over those new moves before practice. We're gonna nail that routine down so hard that even _flamingo _Quinn wouldn't be able to steal the spotlight from us."

Brittany had laughed a little, pulling herself out of bed to get dressed, accepting Santana's change of subject. "Totally. Not even if she leaves her little pink bird poops all over the field."

And for more than an entire year, that had served as the official end to the discussion. It hadn't been until the beginning of junior year that Brittany even tried (and ultimately failed) to broach the subject again; it had been more than two full years before they'd officially, though still secretly, started dating. She knew all too well what those years had done to _her_. But somehow, she'd never really considered what they might have done to Brittany.

Now, standing at this window so far away from that bedroom in Lima, Santana was forced to close her eyes against the sharp new pain the memory brought in its wake. Echoing in her mind were the words Brittany had said to her earlier, after she'd mentioned that long-ago day. _Sometimes I get scared too._

They'd come so far since then. Both as individuals, and as a couple, they'd changed so much. But it didn't mean that early emotional smackdown hadn't happened. It didn't mean that those years of holding her at such a distance hadn't left a legacy of insecurity, of doubts, no matter how deeply buried. All this time, she'd been so worried that Brittany wasn't truly in love with her, that she didn't understand what being in love meant. And deep down, she was still afraid of that. But it hadn't even occurred to her that her _own _love, her own seriousness, her own loyalty, would be cause for concern. It felt as though her entire understanding of their relationship had undergone a seismic shift. But now it was too late to matter.

She forced her eyes open again, finally coming out of her reverie. For the past few seconds, she now realized, there had been a noise at the edge of her awareness, gradually getting louder. In the silent apartment the sound of someone out in the hall, tramping up the stairwell, came to her now with peculiar clarity. For just a split second her entire being seemed to freeze, even her heartbeat felt suspended with hope. Could she have missed the car? After all, she hadn't exactly been focused on the present day.

But no... already, almost before she'd formed the thought, she heard muffled yet still recognizable voices, and reality settled back down around her like a damp blanket. It was just them. Of course. From now on, it would always be just _them_.

And predictably, today when she least wanted to deal with them, it sounded like an obnoxious argument was in progress. Even from inside the apartment it wasn't difficult to make out their words. As always, Rachel's voice echoed as if she created her own acoustic chamber out of the air around her.

"So, what you're suggesting is that you'd prefer it if musicals like The Lion King didn't exist?" she was demanding as they moved down the hall. "The Producers, Once, _Hairspray_?" she continued incredulously. "Because those were all adapted from film, Kurt. All those, and so many more!"

"I'm not saying they shouldn't exist," Kurt lectured her with strained patience. "I'm just saying that when a third of the shows currently being produced got their start as movies, there's a problem. Where's the originality, where's the integrity of the art form?" His voice grew louder and less muffled as the front door opened. "Broadway is becoming nothing but another upscale tourist attraction. It's all corporate glitz and spectacle."

"And what's wrong with spectacle?" Rachel argued. "You know, I for one happen to think that the world could use a little more spectacle."

He shook his head with disdain as they came into the living room, and looked prepared to continue, but then they both seemed to notice Santana at the same time. She remained facing the window, not even turning toward them.

"Well," Kurt sighed. "I would suggest getting Santana's input on this timely debate, but past experience tells me that would be a waste of time for all of us."

"Past experience is right," Santana muttered, still staring into the street. She couldn't muster up anything witty.

Distracted and seeming not to notice the oddness of her voice, Rachel touched Kurt's arm, giving him a meaningful, questioning look. He nodded, and with an air of excitement, they both approached her.

"Santana," Rachel began hesitantly. "We, um... we have some news."

At this, she turned her head back toward them just the slightest bit, like someone distracted by an irritating sound that isn't quite enough to capture the full attention. But she didn't look away from the window. Unless their news had something to do with Brittany, which was unlikely, she wasn't interested.

Obviously they were waiting for more, though. "Maybe you'd like to sit down?" Kurt suggested.

She managed to ignore them for a few more seconds. But then, with a sigh of relinquishment, she let herself be guided away from her place of vigil. Apparently she couldn't stay there forever after all. Not that it would make any difference, either way.

She sat on the couch, crossing her arms and staring at the two of them. It seemed they'd completely made up from their little spat the previous afternoon. They stood in front of her with an air of nervous anticipation, like they were getting ready to perform something. It occurred to her that maybe they _were _getting ready to perform something, and she glanced toward the doorway as if wondering how fast she could make her escape if it came to that.

Still not seeming to notice her dark mood, Rachel turned to Kurt. "As promised, I'll let you do the honors," she offered gallantly.

"Oh," Kurt said, surprised. "Really?" To Santana, he said, "All right, well, it should be noted that this information is very much on the down-low. Off the record, officially."

She rolled her eyes, waiting for him to get on with it. Rachel also radiated impatience, but of the more excited kind. She stood at his elbow, hands clasped as she urged him on with a look.

"And also, if anyone asks, you never got this intel from us," he said. "Not that anyone would ask, but just to be on the safe side, it would be nice if you could keep that in mind. All right, anywho," he rambled on eagerly, "It just so happens that Rachel and I were roaming the halls of our esteemed institution this morning when it came to our attention that a certain door had been left open. Or not so much open, as unlocked. All right, not _exactly _unlocked, but if it can be opened with a nail file, can it really be considered locked to begin with?"

Santana only stared back at him in bafflement. What the hell was he talking about, and why was she forced to endure it on today of all days?

He went on. "And this particular door just so happened to lead to the admissions office. I know, what are the chances, hm? So, in total stealth Carmen San Diego mode, the two of us decided to have ourselves a little gander around. But alas, there was a janitor lurking in the vicinity, and we didn't know when he might come by, so time was of the essence. You should have seen how well we worked together, it's like we were reading each other's minds."

Rachel supported this statement with enthusiastic nodding. Santana looked from one to the other with the helpless sense that she was stuck in a waking nightmare.

Unaware of her misery, Kurt kept going. "So with perfectly coordinated synchronicity, we searched through one filing cabinet after another. But it was hopeless, we were getting nowhere. Apparently the current records are all electronic, and can only be accessed with the right password. I mean, honestly, what's the fun of snooping without the thrill of opening up illicit folders in the glow of a flashlight?"

By this point Rachel was practically vibrating, bouncing on her toes, her lips compressed with the effort to stay silent.

Kurt continued, his voice low and dramatic. "It was no use, though... and time was running out. We had to go. But at the very last minute, on our way out of the office, we noticed a shocking thing. There in front of our eyes was a computer that had been left on, and it was _already logged in_. So... we sat down in front of it, and lo and behold, after a little searching we found a certain file- "

"You got into NYADA!" Rachel blurted out.

"Rachel!" Kurt shot her a betrayed look. "_Really_?"

"I'm sorry," she pleaded, making a prayer gesture in remorse. "I tried, Kurt, I really did. You were just taking so long. And using so many words."

He sighed and turned back to Santana, resuming his normal tone. "Anyway, that's our big news. The letters won't officially go out for a few more weeks, so it's not a hundred percent certain, but from what we could tell... you're in." He stopped talking, finally, as if noticing that she still hadn't reacted.

"So, what do you think?" Rachel prompted her. "Aren't you excited?"

Santana stared at the coffee table just in front of them. She felt like an actor in a play she'd never been given a script for, a play she'd never even wanted to be cast in. She felt nothing. But they were still waiting for her response, so she somehow managed to muster up an impression of what she thought a person would be expected to say in this situation. "It's great news." Her voice was flat, insincere. "Wow, what a relief."

They waited a few more seconds, as if convinced there must be more. "Huh," Kurt said, his eyebrows still arched in expectancy. "Somehow this is never as much fun as I think it's going to be."

"Santana." Rachel moved forward and perched herself on the edge of the coffee table. "Look, I know NYADA isn't exactly what you saw yourself doing when you came to New York. And I realize it may not be the most _hip _school in the world..." she added, with air quotes.

"Rachel, don't say _hip_," Kurt shook his head with a grimace. "That makes it even worse."

Ignoring him, she went on, "But I really, truly think you could be happy there. And if you're worried about me cramping your style, we don't have to take the same classes. We can even pretend we don't know each other, if that's what you want."

"No, that's not..." Santana closed her eyes for a second, frustrated. She sat forward, trying to shake herself out of her stupor. "I'm sorry, you guys. It really is amazing news. And I'm happy about it. Or at least I will be," she added. "To be honest, I can't wait to sing and act and gay-dance my way through the next four years. It'll be a nice distraction."

Confused, they glanced at each other. "Is everything okay?" Kurt asked.

She didn't know how to begin to reply to that question. "It's just been kind of a crazy day," she said lamely.

"I know... we should all go out to celebrate!" Rachel suggested. "Our treat. I'm sure no matter what's wrong, a night on the town and a few drinks will make you feel better." She glanced around. "Where's Brittany?"

Santana waited for a long beat, then tested out the words, seeing how they felt in her mouth. "She's gone."

"Oh." Rachel didn't seem to comprehend. "Well, if she's already in Manhattan, we could just meet her there somewhere, save her the trip back."

She smiled a little, bitterly. "Yeah, I'm guessing around now she's at the library with Mr. Bloom, saying goodbye to the lions. But don't bother calling her. When I said gone? I meant _gone_," she repeated for emphasis. "She left. She went back home." To say it out loud felt like something scraping around in her heart. She forced herself to breathe in.

They both continued to stare at her, as if waiting for her to laugh, or reveal the punchline.

"How can that be?" Kurt asked. "She didn't say anything about leaving today." _What did you do? _was the unspoken question Santana thought she saw in their features. But maybe that was just paranoia, or her own guilty conscience.

"Yeah, well, I get the feeling it wasn't exactly planned that far in advance." They still waited, so she elaborated, not because she wanted to talk about it, but because the sequence of events was still confusing to her too. "We sort of had a fight. Or... not a fight, exactly. I don't know what you would call it." She looked at Rachel, suddenly remembering exactly why things had taken such a ridiculous turn. "Apparently she thinks I've been sleeping with you."

Kurt's eyebrows went up in amazement. Rachel placed her hand on her chest, equally shocked. "Really? With... with _me_?" She took a few seconds to process the information. "How many times?" When Santana only looked at her, she continued, "I'm sorry... it's just... it's sort of flattering, I have to admit. I've never been involved in lesbian drama before, I feel like I'm on The L Word. For a performer, this is priceless life experience. Did she happen to mention who she thought was the seducer? I would assume it was you, but on the other hand..."

Realizing she was now getting judgmental stares from both Santana _and _Kurt, she attempted to backtrack, shaking her head and saying in a rush, "No but of course, it's horrible. So, so unfortunate, and tragic... I'm sorry." She looked up at Santana, imploring. "What can we do to help?"

"Nothing," Santana said firmly. "There's nothing you can do. What's done is done."

A new thought occurred to Rachel. "Wait, does this by chance have anything to do with what happened on the roof this morning?"

Intrigued, Kurt asked, "What happened on the roof?"

"I'll fill you in later," she told him. She stood up and paced a little, thoughtful. "You know, I knew she seemed upset. I guess it all makes sense now... the way she wanted me to stop talking to both of you. But I just had no idea... " her words trailed off.

Santana sighed, wishing she hadn't told them anything. "Well, it wasn't your problem to figure out, was it? It was mine. I'm the one who should have noticed. I knew something was wrong, I knew she was homesick... I just didn't want to deal with it. I fucked everything up. So if either or both of you placed money on that likely outcome, now's the time to collect."

She'd been being sarcastic, but the slightly guilty looks on their faces made her wonder if they had, in fact, placed bets before Brittany moved in.

Kurt made an effort to sound positive. "You know, it sounds to me like this is all just a classic zany misunderstanding. I'm sure it'll blow over."

"It won't blow over," Santana said, annoyed rather than comforted. "Did you not hear me say that she's gone?"

"But she only went home for a visit," Rachel said. "She's coming back, isn't she?"

Santana waited for a long beat before answering, staring vacantly in the direction of the window, where she wished she was still standing, alone. This was the question she'd been avoiding thinking about, the one above all the others that she didn't want to contemplate right now, especially in front of an audience. But finally she looked back over at them, forcing herself to tell the truth. It came out just above a whisper.

"I don't think so."

To her surprise, they both seemed a bit crestfallen by this news. Did they actually care that much, or did they just feel implicated, somehow? The two of them glanced at each other in silent conferral, concerned.

"Well, if you really believe that," Rachel said with unusual firmness as she turned back to Santana, "Then you have to stop her!"

"_Stop her_?" Santana repeated, scornful. "What the hell am I supposed to do, drag her back here and lock her in our room? She made her decision, she chose to go. There's nothing I can do about it."

"You could at least call her," Rachel persisted. "You said yourself she's probably not even out of the city yet. Ask her to come back and work things out."

"No, I'm not doing that, I'm not calling her to beg," she said, shaking her head. "That's pathetic."

"It's not _begging_. It's asking for a chance to talk things through now that you've both had some time to cool down and reflect."

"Yeah, well, we did plenty of _talking things through_. We talked through three different rooms, four if you count the living room twice. You weren't here, you didn't see it. So here's an idea, Nosey Nora, why don't you butt out? Because it's none of your damn business."

Momentarily accepting defeat, Rachel gave a frustrated sigh, looking at Kurt for help.

"Santana." He stepped toward her, a bit hesitant. "We're not trying to intrude on your personal space. But the thing is... I know you well enough to know that you probably said some really stupid things. Some things that you already regret. Am I right?"

She shrugged a little, refusing to make eye contact, trying to maintain _some _dignity. "Maybe."

"And on that same note, I'm also going to assume that there are probably some things you wish you _had _said, that you didn't."

He waited, but she made no response to this at all, other than a slight defiant raising of her chin, still without looking at him. Kurt took this as acknowledgment that he was right.

"There are a lot of things I wish I'd said to Blaine before I left that hotel room," he told her with quiet sincerity. "But trust me, as time goes by... it'll start to feel like it's too late. Like there's no point. With this kind of thing, the timing matters. I know it's scary to think about, but it's true."

"He's right," Rachel said. "The longer you hold something back, the harder it is to say it at all."

"Oh, you're one to talk about _holding things back_," Santana told her with a pointed look. "You know, maybe we should give Quinn a call, get her input on this whole scenario. I mean, clearly she's better at giving advice than anybody here. Maybe she's got the answer."

Kurt glanced at Rachel, confused. "What is she talking about?"

Rachel pressed her lips together, annoyed, but not giving up. "Fine. You know what, you're right. You're absolutely right. The fact is, none of us have been being very honest with each other lately, and you see what a mess it's made." She turned to Kurt, taking a deep breath. "Kurt." She paused, then plunged ahead. "Finn and I broke up. Over winter break."

He waited, as though wondering if there was more. Then he gave her a sympathetic wince. "I know."

Taken aback, she nevertheless was touched. "You do?"

"Well, I didn't know for sure, but... I've been sort of putting the pieces together. I don't really understand the need for secrecy, but I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."

Now her face crumpled a bit with emotion. "I should have known you would know." She moved toward him for a hug.

"Oh, come on!" Santana said, watching the whole scene with incredulity. "Why am I even surprised? Of course you would manage to make even the worst moment of my life somehow all about you. Whatever," she added dismissively, turning away from them. "I'm going to bed."

"Santana, wait. Please?" Rachel parted from Kurt and moved to block her, holding her hand up. "Besides the fact that it's only three o'clock in the afternoon, please just hear us out. If we let you give up this easy, what kind of friends would we be?"

"I don't know, the _normal _kind?" she exclaimed. "I don't understand what you're expecting to happen here. I'm sure the second I call her, she'll just rush right back like it's no big deal. And then we can make cupcakes together while we joke about our hilarious love triangle, and then later tonight the four of us will all hold hands on the roof while we sing Seasons of Love from Rent." At Rachel's strangely awkward look for this last part, Santana added, "Oh my God, you've fantasized about that, haven't you?"

Ignoring the accusation, she said, "Nobody's saying that it'll all work out perfectly. But how will you know, if you don't even try?" Her face took on an earnest glow. "Just when everything seems most hopeless, that's when you have to give it one more shot. Haven't you ever seen a romantic comedy?"

"My life is not a romantic comedy! At this point, it's not even a regular comedy. It's like one of those straight-to-DVD Bring it On sequels that's so lame even a washed-up Kirsten Dunst wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. Why can't you just accept that?" She cast a pleading look at Kurt.

He seemed regretful, but said, "I'm sorry, but I'm with Rachel on this one. You can be so stubborn, Santana. You're great at dishing out the hard truths to other people, but you're not so great at hearing them yourself." He moved closer, hesitant, but determined. "For example, I've never been able to tell you that I think your right boob is just the _tiniest _bit bigger than the left one, even though it drives me crazy." He seemed impressed with himself. "Whew," he breathed, "I'm glad that's finally off my chest. No pun intended."

Santana glanced down, puzzled, and then crossed her arms protectively over her chest while he continued speaking.

"And what about our Christmas tree, hmm?" he went on. "Neither of us said a word when you wanted to decorate it from top to bottom in nothing but gold ornaments, even though it was one of the tackiest things I've ever seen in my life. Seriously, it looked like the Kardashians threw a holiday party at Donald Trump's house."

"My tree wasn't tacky," Santana protested, sounding wounded. She looked at Rachel. "Did you think it was tacky?"

Rachel refused to meet her eyes. "It was... very shiny," she hedged. "Look, I think all Kurt is trying to say is that sometimes we give in a little too easily, because it can be scary to tell you what we really think. But not this time. We're not backing down." She gave him a nervous glance, as if to confirm he was still with her. "This is too important, and we're gonna ride you if we have to. Hardcore," she added with false bravado.

"Okay, first of all, _wanky_," Santana said. "And second of all, _please_. You two are about as hardcore as a Colbie Caillat song. But gosh, I guess I should consider myself lucky. Because for most people, having your girlfriend walk out on you after reminding you of what a shitty person you are would be, I don't know, kind of a bummer. A nightmare, even. But no, see, I don't have to worry about that, because I've got Strawberry Shortcake and Rainbow Brite here to remind me that life is just peachy, and everything always works out fine, usually with an annoying song at the end."

She gave them a fake smile, but then seemed to think of something. "Oh, but there's just one little problem. And that's that I'm neither a cartoon, nor a flaming lunatic. Oh, and also? I'm about five seconds away from cracking some skulls up in here if I have to listen to another word of this twisted little intervention on my love life. So let me drop some advice on _you_. Why don't the two of you hop on your gay little trolley and tootle on back to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, where you can resume your razzle-dazzle lives, put on your sparkly tap shoes, and jazz-finger each other into oblivion. Because over here on this side of reality? Nobody has time for your bullshit."

An uncomfortable silence followed this outburst, and Santana used the interval to draw in a deep breath, recovering. A finely-constructed rant was like a sport; it left you a little winded. But unlike usual, this rant hadn't made her feel any better. Actually, she felt worse. And she was afraid that now that she'd started the avalanche of emotion, it would end somewhere more vulnerable, somewhere she didn't want to go in front of them.

Holding her head up and praying she could at least make it to her room before any tears betrayed her, she started toward the door.

"Okay," Rachel said behind her, quiet at first and then louder. "Okay, you want to do this the hard way? Fine. Then I guess that's the way it'll have to be."

Dismayed, Santana turned back to face her. "_Why _are you still talking?"

"You know, the fact of the matter is, Santana, this isn't just about you. We're all up to our necks in this. What about me, what about _my _guilt? After all, I feel like this whole situation is at least partially my fault, for not being aware of the consequences of my own sexual power and magnetism."

"_Oh God_," Santana muttered in misery, squeezing her temples.

Ignoring her, Rachel went on. "I just feel like somebody here owes Brittany an apology. If it's not gonna be you, maybe it should be me. So if you're not brave enough to make the damn phone call, then I'll do it myself." With that, she pulled out her phone, wielding it like a weapon.

Santana's heart gave a nervous lurch. "Don't you _dare_."

"Last chance," Rachel offered. "Do you want to do it yourself?"

But Santana clenched her jaw and crossed her arms, radiating refusal from every pore. Kurt looked back and forth from one to the other, worried.

Rachel drew the phone back toward her and nodded. "Fine." Then without another second's hesitation, she began scrolling for Brittany's number, her expression defiant and stubborn.

Santana couldn't believe what she was seeing. "I swear to God, if you push that button, Rachel, I will butcher a pig, put its dripping bloody heart into a box, and then mail that box to Barbra Streisand with a dozen roses and a copy of your driver's license."

As if she couldn't hear her at all, Rachel pushed the call button with a flourish and then raised the phone to her ear, looking at her defiantly.

For one shocked second Santana only stared at her, mouth open in disbelief. Then she lunged. Almost simultaneously, with perfect, seemingly choreographed timing, Kurt leapt forward and caught her around the waist, while Rachel with only milliseconds to spare moved out of range and hopped up onto the top of the coffee table, emitting a squeak of terror.

"Give me the fucking phone!" Santana roared, her fingertips just inches away, but still not close enough. She jolted into a potted plant, which fell over with a crash, taking a lamp with it. "_Te mataré mientras duermes y venderé tu cabello en el internet!_"

"Santana, remember the neighbors," Kurt begged, hanging on for dear life.

"I'm not afraid of you!" Rachel dodged her, hopping from the coffee table to the couch where she climbed precariously onto the back of it. "I can call whoever I want, you can't stop me from calling my roommate!"

Excited by the commotion, the parrot contributed to the chaos by flapping his wings against his cage and shrieking at them over and over, "_Welcome to NYADA, motherfuckers_!"

"Do you seriously have a death wish?" Santana continued her heroic efforts to get to the phone, fighting against Kurt. "Get _off _me, Hummel!"

"You'll thank me later!" he panted as he struggled to hold onto her. "Assuming I survive." She managed to move forward a few inches, dragging him with her and taking out an end table and a stack of magazines. She made a desperate leap for the phone, but Rachel held it high, out of her reach.

"You're too late, it's already ringing!" she crowed triumphantly from her safe height.

Santana made another failed swipe at the phone, then grabbed Rachel's leg instead, intending to dislodge the phone by yanking her from the back of the couch and hopefully breaking some bones in the process.

But then suddenly she swiveled her head toward the hallway and stopped, out of breath, confused. After a few seconds Kurt froze too, still with his arms locked around Santana's middle, who in turn still had her hands wrapped around Rachel's leg. Rachel slowly lowered the phone and turned to face the living room doorway. Anyone entering the room at that precise second would have assumed they were modeling for some avant-garde artistic tableau, or maybe preparing for the world's strangest orgy. The three of them stood motionless, listening. Even Monty quieted down and cocked his head to the side.

"Do you hear that?" Rachel asked.

What Santana heard was faint music. As she listened, the song seemed to grow louder, the melody more familiar. It was _You're Still the One_.

Rachel whispered, "It's coming from inside the apartment. I think it's..." she paused. "I think it's Shania Twain."

"Oh dear God, not Shania," Kurt murmured. "I've had nightmares that start like this."

"It's Brittany's phone," Santana said, puzzled. She knew she'd changed the ring tone just a few days ago, using the song from the wedding last weekend. She wasn't quite sure why that particular number had struck such a chord with her, but she'd thought it was cute nonetheless.

Now she let go of Rachel's leg and detached herself from Kurt, moving toward the sound. Even though she knew it was stupid and pointless, she felt a tiny thread of hope weaving its way through her. Was it possible? Maybe, while they'd been making so much noise that they wouldn't have been able to hear the door open...? She continued to track the sound, hardly breathing. Rachel hopped down from the couch and she and Kurt followed behind Santana, right on her heels.

The three of them came to a stop in the bathroom doorway, Santana in the lead. For a second they only stood there, looking into the seemingly empty room. Then Santana stepped forward and with an apprehensive motion yanked back the shower curtain.

The bathtub was empty. But perched on one edge, next to a bottle of shampoo, was Brittany's phone. Santana stared at it, then let her breath out, pissed at herself and the idiotic disappointment she felt. What the hell had she really been expecting?

Now the song finally stopped, and Santana stepped forward to pick the phone up. Turning back around, she examined it and then showed it to Rachel and Kurt, who seemed to have absorbed a bit of her expectation and disappointment.

Rachel stared down at her own phone, sheepish. "Well, so much for that idea."

"Thanks, guys," Santana said with heavy sarcasm. "Thanks a lot. So not only did Brittany blow this joint, but _now _I know that I apparently fucked up her head so much that she rushed out of here and forgot her phone. And if there's one thing Brittany never, _ever _forgets? It's her phone. So I really appreciate you taking the time to make this whole crapgasm of a day just that much more painful."

She shoved the phone at Kurt, wanting to get it out of her sight, and then pushed between them and out of the doorway.

"Santana..." Rachel began, apologetic.

"Just leave me the hell alone," she told them, headed toward her bedroom. "You've done enough." Exactly like on that first night, when Brittany's arrival had been delayed by car trouble, she wanted nothing more than to hide under her covers and shut out the world. But this time, of course, everything was different. This was so much more than an inconvenient delay. Had she actually climbed into bed and moped about such a minor thing? It seemed like another lifetime ago.

She stepped inside her bedroom. Just as she was on the verge of closing the door behind her, Kurt spoke, as if he'd just had an epiphany.

"The tunnel!"

Still with her hand on the doorknob, she nonetheless was curious enough, or confused enough, to step back into the hallway. "_What_?"

"The Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. Mr. Bloom was driving his own car, right?"

Santana shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

"So... I heard on the news this morning that they'll be working on the tunnel all weekend. They were urging everyone from South Brooklyn to take the bridges instead."

"That's right!" Rachel said, excited now. "I heard Professor Morgan talking about it. He said traffic into and out of the city is a nightmare. It took him hours to get to campus from Williamsburg. And I bet it's even worse at this time of the day."

Santana was beginning to wonder if they were now just using random delaying tactics, regardless of any kind of logic. "Assuming there's a point to this little civics lesson," she demanded, "How's about you get to it?"

"The point is," Kurt said with exaggerated patience, like he was talking to a child. "If they're driving, they may not even be in Manhattan yet. If you leave right now and take the subway, there's a good chance you could beat them to the library."

"Bullshit," Santana said, skeptical. "There's no way in hell."

"No, he's right," Rachel said. "And at this point, really, what do you have to lose?" She stepped forward, growing more animated. "Just picture it, it'll be so romantic! Like the end of Sleepless in Seattle, only instead of the Empire State Building, you'll run into each others' arms on the steps of the public library. It's an iconic New York City location!" she added, as though this should be a deciding factor for Santana.

And although she hated to admit it, she _did _find herself imagining the scenario Rachel painted. To her own surprise, she found that the idea was beginning to be appealing to her. But she wasn't really considering this insanity, was she? She reminded herself of who she was listening to. She needed to stand firm against their derangement.

"Forget it," she said, but not with much conviction. "She'll think I'm insane."

"She won't think that," Kurt argued. "This is Brittany we're talking about! You could hire a plane to sky-write your feelings for her, and she'd think it was the most normal thing in the world." Sensing her wavering, he pressed on. "If nothing else, you should at least give her her phone back before she leaves. She needs her phone. I mean, look, she's already missed three texts from..." he examined the phone. "Her _cat_?" He looked closer, muttering, "That can't be right."

What he was saying made sense, Santana knew. Brittany _did _need her phone. It was practically an appendage of her body, she used it for everything. And though she still couldn't believe she was even giving this absurd plan any serious thought, maybe she really could get there in time. Maybe she really could say the things she'd already begun to regret not saying, or at least not saying with enough seriousness. Maybe she could fix it all, before Brittany even left the city. But to chase after her like that, wouldn't it seem a little desperate? A little ridiculous? And of course it would also mean a direct hit to her pride, considering she'd spent the last twenty minutes refusing to even consider giving things another chance.

Watching the hesitation play out on her face, Rachel came even closer, just in front of her, and forced her to look at her. "Santana, I don't want to be overdramatic. But if you don't do this, you will _always _wonder what would have happened if you had. You could end up regretting it for the rest of your life."

She gave her a look of dismay. "You don't think that's overdramatic?"

Rachel shrugged. "Okay, maybe a little. But it's true. And you know it."

Santana sighed, pressing her lips together and staring at the floor, having an internal debate with herself. _Stop being so fucking stubborn. Stop being so afraid_. What was the worst that could happen? That she would get there, and find it was too late? No, that wasn't the worst, she knew. The worst would be if she found her, if she poured her heart out, if she got down on one knee and begged her to stay... and after all that Brittany still got back in that car and continued on her way to Ohio. But even if that happened, even if she was left humiliated and heartbroken, at least she would know. She would finally know for sure where things stood. And she was so, so tired of not knowing for sure.

Her mind made up, she looked back up at them. "Fine," she said. "I'll go. Not because I think there's a chance in hell it'll work, but only so I don't have to stay here and listen to you sappy schmucks yammer on about it for the next five hours."

Even before she'd finished this speech, Rachel was squealing and clapping, while Kurt seemed lit up with anticipation. They parted to allow Santana to pass through the hall, then followed her to the front door.

"Oh gosh, I can't believe this is happening, it's so exciting," Kurt gushed. "I feel like a supporting character in a Nora Ephron movie."

"I know!" Rachel agreed, clutching his arm, the two of them barely able to contain themselves. "I have no doubt that Meg Ryan is looking down from heaven right now and smiling."

"No, she's not dead," Kurt shook his head.

"No? I thought she- Oh, Santana!" Rachel's attention was suddenly diverted. "Before you leave, there's just... one more thing," she said, tentative.

"You're not coming with me."

"No, no... it's not that. I just wanted to ask a favor. If you find Brittany... I mean _when _you find her, please tell her that I'm sorry, for the way everything happened. And promise her that if she comes back, I'll try to be a better roommate. A better _friend_," she corrected herself. "Okay?"

Santana turned and stared at her for a second, making sure she really meant it and wasn't just caught up in the dramatics of the moment. "Yeah," she promised. "Okay."

From the front entryway she grabbed a light suede jacket and made sure she had her wallet and her phone, but decided not to take a purse. She wanted the whole thing to seem as casual and spur-of-the-moment as possible, just in case. Kurt handed her Brittany's phone, and she tucked it away with her own.

So, this was it. This was really fucking _it, _she was actually doing this. She opened the front door, gathering all her courage and resolve, preparing to go. But something didn't feel quite right. And the thing that didn't feel right wasn't about Brittany. It was something else. Something here at home just seemed... unfinished, somehow.

She turned back around to find them still hovering, watching her, looking for all the world like their own lives depended on the outcome of this trip. It made no sense at all. But it couldn't have been more obvious how much they cared. And if it wasn't for them, she wouldn't even be doing this. She tried to call up a memory of how she'd once felt about these two ridiculous show choir losers, and it was impossible. That earlier self no longer existed. For the second time today, she found herself in the scary position of needing to acknowledge that fact out loud.

Santana rolled her eyes a little, already awkward and uncomfortable even before she'd started talking. "So, I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to tell you guys that I love you, and that I don't know what I would do without you... and then we all hug and cry, and it's a big mushy mess."

"Well..." Kurt said, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes already moist. "If that's what the script calls for, then who are we to argue?"

She smiled a little, giving in. In the same motion, they all stepped forward and folded themselves into a three-way hug. Santana felt her ribs squeezed hard and she squeezed back, her chin cushioned over Kurt's shoulder and both their heads bumping against hers. She felt her eyes sting and closed them fast, swallowing hard and fighting against emotion. She'd just been _joking _about the crying part, damn it.

"And we love you too," Rachel whispered over her shoulder, sounding equally choked-up. She pulled back, giving Santana an encouraging smack on the arm. "Now go, _go_!"

She nodded and took a deep breath, turning to go, but looked back at them one more time from the hallway. "I hope for both of your sakes that I don't end up regretting this." Then she headed toward the stairwell, knowing there was no more time to waste.

"You won't regret it." Rachel's voice trailed after her as she moved down the stairs. "As a matter of fact, I'm so confident that you'll bring her back, I'm going to take the karaoke machine up to the roof right now! So be prepared to get your Rent on!"

Just before she moved out of earshot, she heard Kurt's voice, sounding skeptical. "Rachel, please tell me you're not serious about that."

"I _am _serious," she told him. "And you are _going _to participate."

He sighed. "Can it at least be La Vie Boheme?"

Santana laughed a little, making the turning onto the third floor, feeling an embarrassing surge of affection for them that she would never, ever speak of aloud. But it was time to focus on other things now, and she moved faster as she neared the bottom of the stairwell, nervous anticipation powering her body forward.

Pausing just briefly on the way out of the building, she glanced back into the dim recesses of the downstairs hallway to the spot where a ragged recliner chair had once been permanently parked. "Wish me luck, Pete," she said under her breath. Hopefully, wherever he was, he would understand why she'd had to choose Ruby over Greta.

Outside the building, she saw that for once luck was on her side; just across the street, a taxi was at that moment dropping off the brittle elderly couple who always took an eternity to get inside. It was only a few blocks to the subway, but she didn't want to waste another second. If she was going to do this preposterous thing, make this crazy gesture, then she had to commit to it fully. So, barely even checking for traffic, she dashed across the street.

When she reached the cab, the old man was just in the process of helping his wife from the back seat. Santana tried not to convey her extreme impatience, because they were ancient and actually kind of adorable, but she couldn't help making a rotating wrist gesture that urged them silently to _come on, come the fuck on already. _When they were at last clear of the vehicle, she gave them a tight smile and slid into the back seat, slamming the door after her. Breathless, she gave the driver directions and demanded that he hurry.

After a second of distractedly gazing out the window, she realized they still hadn't started moving. Confused, she peered forward and met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.

_Shit_. _Shit, shit, shit._ It was the same guy from last night, the one she'd threatened with... what was it? Homeland Security? _Oh, God_, she groaned inwardly. What the hell were the chances? How many fucking cabs were there in New York?

The guy was giving her a smug, satisfied look, as if pleased that he now had the chance to make her late for something.

Attempting to arrange her face into a pleasant expression, she said, "Well, this is awkward." She considered her options. She'd already used threats on the guy, so that seemed to be out of the running. She considered her arsenal. Sex appeal? Obviously that would do it - it _always _did it - but she didn't have enough time to really work her magic. In a flash of inspiration, she reached up and pulled her earrings off, then leaned forward over the front seat, cupping them in her hand.

"These are diamonds, okay?" she told him in clear, careful English. "Very expensive diamonds... what we like to call in the Lopez family _guilt diamonds_. And if you get me to the station in the next two minutes? This bling can all be yours. Understand? _Yours_. You can use them to barter for a fourth wife, or to get one of your cousins out of Gitmo." She tilted her wrist a little, letting them catch the light, and tried not to sound too desperate. "What do you say?"

He gazed at the earrings, considering, and she could tell he was going to give in. But as he reached for them, she closed her palm. "Uh-uh," she shook her head. "First, _drive_."

And he did, even a little over the speed limit, from what she could tell. It still didn't seem fast enough, but it would have to do. When they'd reached the underground entrance he eased the car over to the curb and she hurriedly smashed the earrings into his hand, giving him a flustered thanks as she exited the cab. It occurred to her that maybe he'd also expected her to pay in cash for the trip, but screw it. Those diamonds were worth more than five years of taxi rides. In the unlikely event that her dad ever happened to notice they were gone, she'd tell him she'd had to pawn them for food after he refused to help her out. Maybe a sob story would merit a replacement pair.

She flew down the steps into the subway station, wishing she could take them two at a time, but knowing that in these shoes, it would be a life-threatening proposition. Even running in them was risking injury, but Brittany was worth it. Frantic, she checked the schedule, but then realized the N train was getting ready to pull out at that exact second. _No no no no_, she thought, swiping her card at the speed of light and dashing toward it, the doors already closing. It was starting to seem a little bit like the Queerberry twins had planned this whole thing down to the last detail with maximum drama in mind. She made it through the door, just in time, squeezing into the crowded weekend car, leaning against a handrail to let her heart rate slow. Normally she would try to flirt her way into a seat, but today she didn't mind standing. She felt too anxious, too keyed up, to sit down anyway.

On the way to 42nd Street she lost a few minutes changing trains at Times Square, but it wasn't too bad, considering how precious each second was. Everything seemed to be working out uncannily well. Was that a good sign, or a bad one? When the doors whooshed open at the Bryant Park stop, she elbowed her way to the front, heedless of the other passengers, and leapt out. In another breathless dash, she emerged into the late afternoon sunshine and hurried as fast as she could around the side of the library building, heading toward the front.

Reaching it, she was a bit dismayed to find that the place was packed with tourists. Of course that was to be expected, considering it was a Saturday in May, but she hadn't had time to think ahead. Now, she couldn't suppress her resentment. How the hell was she supposed to spot Brittany in the midst of all these overweight, fanny pack-sporting, sweatpants-clad asses? She scanned the crowd, hoping that her prior luck with the subway would still be holding strong. Maybe she would see her right away; maybe it would be just that easy.

But apparently, it wasn't going to be that easy. She called up a mental image of what Brittany had been wearing, closing her eyes for a second to reproduce it in exact detail. Gray high-waisted pants, a yellow top with some kind of quirky logo on it... and over all that, a purple sweater. Her hair had been down, but not all the way. Part of it was pulled back. Santana found herself getting a bit distracted, remembering how adorable she'd looked. She tried to focus. _Okay, just calm down. Take a look around. She must be here somewhere. _

But despite her best efforts, she didn't feel calm. And she knew she probably didn't look calm, either. A few people passing by gave her apprehensive glances, sensing her restlessness, wondering why she was just standing around looking nervous. She hoped no one would call the cops, afraid that she was a suicide bomber or something.

She continued to let her eyes skim over the throngs of visitors. This was hopeless, though. She couldn't see anything from down here. So she decided to head up to the top of the wide stone steps, near the entrance of the imposing edifice. Surely it would be easier to locate someone in the crowd from that height.

About midway up the steps she yanked her heels off. _Fuck it_. She hurried the rest of the way to the top in her bare feet, carrying her shoes, then picked a spot near one of the majestic columns, out of the shadows but still far enough back that she wouldn't be disturbed. Once again, she scanned the whole area, keeping an eye out for any flashes of purple. But what if Britt had taken off the sweater? It was a warm day, almost hot. So she checked for yellow too. And when that failed, she zeroed in on each blonde head, desperate and hoping.

But there was nothing. She wasn't here. And as the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes began to add up, she started to wonder if this had been a huge waste of time from the very beginning. How did she even know exactly where they'd be? Since they were arriving by car, maybe they'd used another entrance? But no, she reminded herself. Brittany had wanted to see the stone lions. And being the gallant doofus that he was, Mr. Bloom would have made sure she got her chance to. So they would have to come this way eventually.

How much longer was she supposed to wait, though? There must be something else she could do, besides just standing here, looking more pathetic every minute. Instead of growing more calm as time passed, she was becoming more agitated. Maybe she should walk around the entire building, or even poke her head inside. She was just on the verge of trying one of these options when suddenly her gaze snagged on a tiny flash of color. It wasn't what she was looking for, but it drew her eyes anyway, because there was something familiar about it.

Sitting against the stone base of one of the lions was what appeared to be a homeless man - or, if not homeless, a man who was probably dirt poor and obviously eccentric. He wore a massive yellow raincoat wrapped around his bulk, even though the sky was clear, and a matching rubber hat. He had a long red beard, and his red mustache was braided into two identical plaits that hung on each side of his chin. From here, he looked a bit like Yosemite Sam, or maybe an urban Viking. But it wasn't the man himself who had caught Santana's eager attention. It was what he held in his hands, the object he was turning over contemplatively in the bright sunshine. She squinted, peering closer. Was it what she thought it was? Was it... a Rubik's cube?

Even though she knew this was most likely crazy, she descended the steps, moving toward him. It was at least worth investigating, right? After all, how many people even still had those? Unless the damn things had been making some kind of post-retro comeback that she wasn't aware of, it seemed like too much of a coincidence that this was the second one she'd seen in the past few hours.

She approached the guy, warily. "Hi," she ventured.

He looked up from the toy, giving her a cagey once-over. "Go away! I don't want no Mexicans around here!"

_Oh boy. _She made a huge effort to sound reasonable, even pleasant. "Oh, well, actually... I'm not Mexican, I'm Puerto Rican."

He eyed her suspiciously. "That's what all the Mexicans say."

Now she noticed that he had a bottle cupped between his immense knees, still hidden inside the brown paper bag, but clearly containing some kind of hard liquor. _Great. Even better._ Making sure not to get too close, she squatted down to his level. In a careful voice, she said, "Look, I just want to ask you one question, okay? And then I'll go away, I promise."

He began humming to himself, something that sounded like a sea chanty.

Taking this as permission to go ahead, or at least not an outright refusal, she pointed at the Rubik's cube in his hands. "Where did you get that?"

"It's mine," he said, drawing the toy in closer to his body and covering it with his palms. "You can't have it."

"Yeah, okay. No problem," she nodded, injecting patience into her tone. "I just want to know where you got it. Did somebody give that to you?"

At first it seemed like he wasn't going to answer, and that this whole farce of a conversation would lead nowhere. But then, in a cautious tone, as though he still suspected her of coveting the item, he said, "My friend gave it to me." For good measure, he added again, "It's mine."

Feeling a faint thread of hope, she tried to sound encouraging. "And did this friend by any chance have long blonde hair?" He seemed to be contemplating the question, so she pressed on. "Was she about five-eight, gorgeous, funny, perfect in every way?" She pressed her lips together, realizing she'd probably said too much, but he didn't seem to notice.

Mulling over these details, he admitted, "Maybe."

"Yeah?" she asked, unable to hide her excitement. "That's great." She moved a little closer, but he edged away from her, alarmed. "Sorry," she said, holding up her hands. "I'm just really happy that _your _friend is the same as _my _friend."

"How do you know Bridget?" he demanded, incredulous.

She thought about what it would take to try to answer that question with anything approaching honesty. "That's... kind of a long story," she told him. "But trust me when I say we go way back. So, look, I just have one more question, and then I swear I'll leave you alone to stew in your own filth and drink yourself into a racism-induced coma." She smiled to mitigate these words. "Okay?"

"You said _one _question," he pointed out, as though pleased to have caught her in a lie. "One. And I already answered..." he counted carefully on his fingers. "Three!" he announced. He took a swig from his bottle, muttering, "Damn sneaky Mexicans."

"You're right, I'm sorry." Santana wished there was somebody else here to witness her extreme exertions toward politeness. Really, she should get some kind of medal. "But all I want to know is if your friend..."

"Bridget," he interjected.

"Bridget," Santana repeated, humoring him. "I just want to know if she's still here. Did she go inside the building?" She waited, afraid to hear the answer. Everything came down to this answer. "Is she inside the building right now? Or did she already leave?"

He took a long time to respond, as though this was a complicated proposition that required investigation from every angle. Staring out at the tourists, then at the building, then at the street, then at the sky, he finally came to a conclusion. "She left."

And with that reply, Santana suddenly felt every last vestige of anxious energy, of anticipation, of hope, drain out of her. She dropped her gaze, staring at the concrete beneath her feet, willing herself not to lose it. Not here, not in front of all these people. Not in front of this guy.

"She left," the Viking said again, as if now that she had no more need of him, he'd decided to become talkative. "About ten minutes ago. With an ugly Jewish drunk." In a philosophical tone, he wondered, "Tell me, where the blazes did he get a girl like that? The Jews get everything." He enunciated these words carefully, compensating for the alcohol. "They're like the Mexicans. Only uglier."

"What?" Santana looked up, unnerved. "What makes you think he was drunk?"

"I didn't say he was drunk. I said he was _a _drunk. A. A. A!" he repeated at her. She cringed away from his breath. "One drunk always recognizes another."

"Yeah, apparently." Clinging to the small consolation that Mr. Bloom wasn't driving under the influence, she stood up. There was nothing more to be gained here. She tried to be grateful that at least she knew not to waste any more time looking.

The guy watched her, still wary.

"Thanks for all your help," she told him sarcastically. She turned to go, but then, on impulse, she turned back, and before she could think better of it, she reached down and snatched the Rubik's cube out of his grasp. She didn't know why, but she wanted it.

He was slow to realize what had happened. But after a delay of a few seconds, his outraged voice drifted after her as she walked quickly away with her head down. "Hey, that's mine. Help! _Help_!" he called, to the total indifference of passers-by, who continued to ignore him. "Thief!" He pointed at her retreating figure. "Mexican thief!"

At first she experienced a slight high from what she'd done. But it lasted only seconds. Then the reality of the situation settled back down around her. Because it was all over now, wasn't it? It was over. She'd been right to begin with. She hadn't made it in time. And now, after coming this far, the disappointment was going to be a million times worse than if she'd just stayed home and moped like she'd planned to. There was no way to get in touch with Brittany now, not until she reached Lima. If Mr. Bloom even had a cell phone, which Santana doubted, she didn't know the number. There was nothing left to do.

She put her shoes back on and continued on down the steps, hardly even seeing where she was going. And because anger was easier than sadness, she invited it to flood through her veins. _Damn them_, she raged inwardly. _This is all their fault. _She suddenly found herself wishing that she had invited Rachel along. That way she'd have somebody to punch right now. Her fingers curled, her hand forming an instinctive fist at the violent fantasy. Of course, in some rational place, buried deep underneath the rage, she understood that it wasn't actually their fault. But her instinct was to assign blame. She needed to blame someone. There had to be _someone_.

And then all of a sudden, with perfect clarity, she knew who it was. It was so obvious. There really _was _one person responsible for this entire nightmare. How had she not realized it already?

Allowing the pain, the fury, to propel her forward, she found herself headed back to the subway station. This time she took the B train, letting it carry her out of Midtown, past Central Park, all the way north into Harlem. She seemed to be operating on some sort of autopilot, since when she emerged from the stop at 135th Street, she couldn't even quite remember how she'd known it was the right one. Her left hand was still clenched into a fist, her palm sore from the nails digging into it.

White-hot anger continued to carry up the dingy stairs of the building she had such mixed memories of, all the way down the shadowy hallway to the end, where she pounded on the metal door of the loft. She realized she was shaking just the slightest bit, and she forced herself to unclench her fist. _You can't just hit her the second she answers the door_, she cautioned herself. _Wait until you're inside._

Now she heard footsteps approaching, and she gritted her teeth, still trying to restrain herself. First she wanted some answers. Then she would unleash the wrath. But when the door rolled open, she froze, confused. It was a guy.

"Yeah?" he said, when she only stared at him in perplexity. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he was in a hurry to get back to something. She thought he seemed vaguely familiar, like she'd maybe seen him at a party before. But she wasn't positive.

Uncertain now, she asked, "Is Amelia here?" It occurred to her that maybe she'd moved. She hadn't actually been here since October, after all.

The guy's eyes glazed over, already losing interest. He backed away from the door, disappearing into the dim interior. "Mill!" he shouted.

Since he'd left it wide open, Santana stepped through the doorway, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. She stared around her, assessing things. The place was a wreck. It had always been messy when she'd been here in the past, but in an artsy, bohemian way. Now it was just filthy. Dust seemed to cover every surface, and the floor was coated with grit. Even the air hung heavy and fetid, and a faint smell of rotting food drifted from the direction of the kitchen. Disturbed, Santana tried not to touch anything. She noticed that on a coffee table nearby were strewn a few cigarette lighters and what looked like metal spoons. She had a feeling they weren't there for eating purposes. Feeling uneasy and already beginning to regret this trip, she averted her eyes.

"Hey, shortcake. Long time no see." Out of the dimness, Millie came floating up to her, balancing herself on the walls and edges of furniture as she moved forward. "Matter of fact, I was just thinkin' about you the other day. And now here you turn up outta the blue again, like a bad penny." There was something odd about her speech, about her entire demeanor, in fact. It all seemed slowed-down, like she was underwater. "Did you meet my boyfriend?"

Not wanting to engage on her terms, Santana was nonetheless startled enough to reply to this. "I'm sorry, your _what_?"

She came to a stop, leaning on an end table. "Yeah, it turns out, it was just a phase." She shrugged, with an odd, lopsided smile. "I'm not really gay."

Santana closed her eyes and briefly shook her head, as if she could dispel the craziness. "Yes you _are_," she said firmly.

But Millie hardly even seemed to be listening. "That's just your opinion." She raised her hand to brush her messy hair back out of her face, and as she did Santana noticed with a shock that there were black and purple discolorations running up and down the inside of her forearm, clustered especially in the crook of her elbow.

She gasped. "Oh my God." Grabbing Millie's hand, she examined the needle tracks, seeing how the newer, fresher openings overlaid the older greenish and yellow-hued scars. She knew for a fact that these hadn't been there before; at least not when they were together.

"It ain't as bad as it looks." Millie tugged her hand back toward her, self-conscious, now seeming a bit more aware of her surroundings. "I just bruise easy. As you may recall." With this last bit, she attempted a meaningful smirk.

Santana refused to take the bait, however. "Jesus," she said in horror, finally looking away from the damaged arm and meeting her eyes. "I came here to kick your ass, but I see you're doing that job just fine on your own."

Millie seemed genuinely puzzled. "Now why would you want to do a thing like that to poor little old me?"

Santana made an effort to get back into the explosive mindset she'd been in just moments before, but it was difficult. "What the hell did you tell Brittany?" she demanded.

"Oh, right," Millie said, seeming to remember now. "Her." She drifted over to an easel, idly running her pinky finger through the dust of a painting she clearly hadn't worked on in months. "I didn't tell her nothin' but the truth. You used to lecture me about how I should stop makin' up so many stories to get on people's good sides, right? Well, I'm all about the truth these days, sugar." She turned back to Santana, pleased with herself. "I figured she oughtta hear it from somebody."

"Are you talking about that stuff with Rachel?" Santana approached her, struggling to make sense of this information. "Because that never even _happened_. I just didn't want to talk about Brittany with you."

She appeared to be turning this over in her mind. "Why not?"

At this point, there didn't seem to be any reason for denying the truth. So Santana told her. "Because it hurt too much."

She watched the realization play out on Millie's face, the sudden understanding of the intensity of what she'd unwittingly stumbled into. "Damn," she said, sounding amused by it all. "Then you really fucked yourself over good, didn't you?" She narrowed her eyes, thoughtful. "What's that word for when the stupid stuff you do in the past comes right back around like a bad case of the herp?"

Santana couldn't tell whether she was just being ironic, or whether she really couldn't think of the word in her addled state. She supplied it, miserable. "Karma."

Millie smiled a little, giving a satisfied nod. "That'd be it."

"Well, I'm glad this is all so entertaining for you. I can't believe I used to think there was a human being in there somewhere."

Millie was unmoved. "You never thought that," she said. Curious now, she asked, "So, did she leave? Is that why you up an' rushed over here?" The answer to this question was obvious from the wince of pain that flickered across Santana's features. "Aww," Millie drawled, all exaggerated sympathy. "It sucks, don't it? To have someone just walk out on you like that?"

"You know what, I'm sorry," Santana told her. "I'm sorry I ended things the way I did. It was shitty, I know it was. I never should have said that about you..." She lowered her voice, glancing toward the bedroom. "About you not being out. If there's anyone in the world who should have never said those words, it's me. But this, with Brittany? It is _not _the same thing." She stepped closer, wanting to get through to her. "Amelia, you hardly even knew me. She's the love of my life." The words sounded desperate, pleading, as if somehow in the back of her mind she thought Millie could fix all this, like maybe that was secretly why she'd come here. But what the hell was she expecting? There was nothing she could do.

At least the words seemed to spark a tiny bit of genuine remorse in Millie, though. But she remained skeptical. "You're nineteen, how the hell could you know that?"

Santana gave a helpless shrug, feeling the first warning sting of tears that she prayed she could hold back. "I just do."

Now the remorse flowered into true sympathy, somehow breaking through even the numbing blanket of the drugs. "Oh, honey," Millie murmured, approaching and putting a hand on her arm. "What have you done got yourself into?"

Santana reminded herself that this girl had once actually claimed to love her. Had it ever been true? Would Millie herself even have known if it was true? In any case, she seemed to be feeling something for her right now. Because the comforting hand on her arm trailed, after a few seconds, down to her wrist. Santana followed its progress with her eyes, then looked back up at Millie, who was by this point only inches away. She could feel the heat from her skin, and now she noticed the undeniable offer in her look. She hadn't been away from her long enough to forget what that look meant.

And to her surprise, she found herself considering it. She did more than consider it, she craved it - the hot, obliterating annihilation of sex, the way it would make everything else disappear for just a little while. Even an hour would be better than nothing. What the hell? What difference would it make now? She was on the verge of stepping forward, of pressing into Millie with an urgency that would probably leave bruises on them both, just like in the old days, when suddenly a voice drifted out of the back bedroom.

"Mill..." it droned. "When you come back grab the cigarettes."

Guilty, their locked gaze broke apart. Somehow, they both seemed to have forgotten the guy's presence entirely.

Millie stared at the floor, trying to conquer resentment and despair. "My boyfriend wants me," she muttered, unable to mask the disgust.

Santana stepped away, knowing she should be grateful for the interruption. "Yeah, so I hear. Good luck with that." She was careful to keep pity out of her tone, not because she didn't feel it, but for Millie's sake. She hated being pitied.

Realizing that there was nothing left for her here, that it had been pointless to come to begin with, Santana turned to go. On the way toward the door she found herself glancing again at the coffee table, at the disturbing items scattered there. She looked back, saying with quiet sincerity, "Get some help, Millie."

At this, Millie laughed to herself, enjoying some secret amusement.

"What?" Santana asked, curious.

"Nothin'." She gave her a pointed look. "It's just, that's the first time you ever called me that."

Santana considered, realizing it was true. But there didn't seem to be anything more to add. So she continued on out. From the open doorway, she heard Millie's plaintive voice drifting after her, a sad hopefulness in her tone. "Hey! If she doesn't come back, maybe we could hang out sometime! Gimme a call!"

Though her first instinct was to snap that this was never going to happen, she bit back the reply, continuing on down in silence. Because, after all, if Brittany didn't come back, who the hell knew what she might end up doing, or who she would end up considering as a potential warm body to cling to. Maybe she would be that desperate, _that _lonely. It was probably best not to burn any bridges at this point, even the ones that had always been on the verge of collapse to begin with.

She took her time getting back home, the need for any kind of hurry having evaporated into nothing but a dank, weary anticlimax. On the subway she sat silently, staring with a kind of numb bewilderment into space. Outside the station, she let everyone go in front of her, trailing behind old people without bothering to try to go around them. Even with her deliberately leaden pace, though, she found herself back on the familiar sidewalks of Sunset Park all too soon. In a bizarre distortion of time, the trip back from Harlem seemed even shorter than the trip to Midtown.

Walking the few blocks to their building, she kept her arms wrapped around herself, her head down. It wasn't cold, of course; even though the sun was now setting behind the warm brown brick facades, the pavement still emanated the daytime heat. She realized with something like surprise that spring was nearly over - maybe not according to the calendar, but according to common sense. In just a few short months, it would be an entire year since she'd come to the city. The linden trees she passed under were in full, verdant leaf, casting their shade over pockets of sidewalk. Coming from what sounded like a couple of blocks to the south were the unmistakeable calliope strains of an ice cream truck. She thought she could even detect barbecue scents wafting from somewhere. To everyone else but her, it must have seemed like the perfect day.

And the surest sign of approaching summer was the people out everywhere - on stoops, in doorways, on fire escapes. In the late afternoon heat kids were playing in alleys and next to parked cars. At one point a basketball bumped against Santana's ankle, something that normally would have provoked some choice Lima Heights phrases, no matter how young the offender. But today she only gave the little boy a sad, distracted smile, kicking the ball back toward him. Somehow, after the silly conversation with Brittany and Kurt yesterday, the sight of kids was painful. She knew how ridiculous that was. But everything just felt so raw, so exposed. How long would it be before every single thing she saw stopped reminding her of what she'd lost?

But maybe it was too soon to think of it like that, like everything was over for good. She tried to picture a way around it, a way things could still turn out okay. She could go to Lima. When finals were over, she could just pack up and go, surprise Brittany there. It didn't have to happen here, did it? It didn't have to conform to Rachel's romantic comedy blueprints. The original plan had been for them to go back to Ohio together, anyway. So why not follow her there? But somehow, in the back of her mind, she didn't think it would work. Or maybe more accurately, she didn't think she would do it. Most likely, Kurt was right about the timing thing. The longer you waited, the more impossible it seemed.

So maybe, instead of considering how everything could still work out, she should be facing the fact that it probably wouldn't. In her imagination she attempted to grope her way forward into the shadows of that future, forcing herself to confront what it might look like. It was impossible to imagine a life without Brittany in it, no matter how hard she tried. She would have to be in it, somehow. But when she made an effort to picture what it would be like to go back to being _friends_, her mind balked at it. Everything in her heart, in her soul, rebelled against the idea. Maybe it would be easier, after all, to never see her again than to see her in that weak, watered-down way. When had they ever been just friends, anyway? There had always been something more there, right from the very beginning.

But no matter what it had been in the past, she had to accept that it wasn't going to be like that anymore. She _had _to. How, though? How did she even start? Continuing down the sidewalk, she made herself look into that scary future again, trying to see herself as single, _truly _single, not like she'd been in the fall when she'd been waiting every second for Brittany to join her. Then she tried to picture herself dating someone else, someone sane, not like Millie. But the whole idea of dating someone was that eventually, you might fall in love with them. Wasn't that the point? And you couldn't be in love with two people at the same time. That, at least, she was certain of. She was also certain of one other fact, and this one seemed to spell her doom. She would never, ever fall out of love with Brittany, not as long as she lived.

Santana found her steps lagging as she crossed the street onto their own block, then slowing more as she neared home, until she was practically dragging her feet. Irrationally, she wanted to turn back around and go somewhere else, anywhere else, maybe even check into a hotel for the night. It was stupid and childish, of course. But the closer she got to home, the more she realized how hard it was going to be to deal with Kurt and Rachel's disappointment. It was difficult enough dealing with her own, but at least she could internalize it, channel it somewhere else, maybe even use it to accomplish something. But to face their sadness was the last thing she thought she could endure right now. It would be so showy, so over the top, like something in an amateur play. It would be like torture. But then again, maybe not, she reflected. Maybe they would surprise her. They did that from time to time.

Already moving at a listless pace, her steps slowed even further as she approached the building. But then she looked up. And now she stopped walking completely, coming to a gradual, shocked standstill, staring straight ahead in disbelief.

On the front steps of their building, just a few yards away, Brittany sat watching her.

Santana remained where she was, her feet rooted to the sidewalk. She held perfectly still, hardly daring to blink or to breathe, as if maybe it was just a mirage, and moving too quickly would shatter it, disperse it into nothingness. Her mind must be playing tricks on her, after the chaotic stress of this long, long day.

But no, it must be real. It had to be real, because now Brittany was standing up, brushing her pants off and moving forward with an unusual air of shyness. She started toward Santana, but then stopped while still a few feet away, unsure of herself, locking the fingers of both hands together in an unusual nervous gesture.

Finally, Santana forced herself to move, to take a few steps forward, coming to a stop in front of her. But still she only stared in wonder, amazed into speechlessness. There was so much to say, but now that she had the chance, she suddenly couldn't think of any words at all. She could only gaze at her, at the miracle of her here, in this place where she'd never truly expected to see her again.

As if realizing that it was going to be up to her to make the first move, Brittany voiced a tentative, "Hi." She looked at Santana, questioning, waiting.

_Say something. _Santana forced herself to breathe, to open her mouth, but she still struggled for words._ For God's sake, say something. Anything._

"Hi," she finally echoed. The word came out sounding awed, like it was the first time she'd ever said it. Another interval passed, and she tried desperately to think of something else. Finally, with what felt like a physical wrench, she broke their eye contact, glancing down while she dug into her jacket pocket. "You, um... you forgot your phone." Then she inwardly cringed at the lameness of this beginning, but it was too late. She held the phone out.

"Yeah, I know." Brittany reached out to take it, a bit sheepish. "I realized it when we were halfway across the bridge and Lord Tubbington hadn't gotten back to me with his fantasy baseball league picks." There was something strange in the way she said this, like she was only playing a part.

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Santana. She tried to sound casual. "Is that why you came back?" _Please say no._

At this, Brittany gave her a tiny smile, with something sympathetic but a little teasing in it. She waited a second before answering. "No."

Trying not to make it too evident, she drew in a deep breath of relief. Her mouth felt dry, like she'd sprinted here.

Brittany went on, thoughtful. "I came back because..." She paused, trying to think of the right words. "Because when we were driving away, it was like... you know those cords they use for bungee jumping?"

"Bungee cords?" Santana suggested, confused. The words were coming a bit easier now.

"Yeah, those. It was like I had one of those connected to my heart, and the other end was still here. And the farther away we got, it just kept stretching and stretching and pulling on my heart. And I was afraid it was gonna break."

Santana considered this, trying to make her brain work well enough to discover the meaning of it. "The cord, or your heart?"

Thinking for a second before replying, Brittany said, "Both." Then she seemed to become a bit self-conscious, her cheeks tinging pink. "I just couldn't leave like that. It wasn't right. I felt terrible. So... right after we left the library, I asked Mr. Bloom to let me out so I could take the subway back." She glanced at Santana and then upward, indicating their windows. "Anyway, when I got here, they told me that you went looking for me?"

"Oh. Yeah," she said, rolling her eyes a bit. "It was stupid. It was supposed to be this big, epic romantic thing at the library... it wasn't my idea," she hastened to add.

But Brittany didn't seem to find the notion stupid at all. "I can't believe you did that," she told her. "I would have never thought you'd do something like that."

Awkward, Santana shrugged. "It doesn't matter now. I was too late."

Brittany gazed at her for a long moment, her features glowing with proud admiration. Quietly, she said, "You're not too late."

These words caused a tiny, surprised flutter in Santana's stomach, a mixture of nerves and something more hopeful. Feeling shaky, she said, "Okay, then..." She stopped, wondering how to even begin. "Will you sit down with me?"

Brittany glanced over at where she indicated. "Of course."

They sat on the lower steps of the building's front stoop, turned sideways, facing each other. The positioning reminded Santana, just a little, of the way they'd sat on the bleachers for that _other _conversation, almost a year ago now. She wished she hadn't made the mental connection, considering how that one had gone. Maybe it was a bad omen.

For a minute she stared at a crack in the concrete, but then she forced herself to raise her eyes. "Brittany, first of all, I need to tell you something, and you have to believe me. _Nothing _ever happened with Rachel. And nothing ever will. It's not like that." She tried to think of how to phrase the rest of what she wanted to say, the most important part. "What happened with you and me, it wasn't just because we were already friends, or because we were comfortable with each other, or because we had an attraction. It was more than all of that. Wasn't it?" She gave her an imploring look.

Considering this, Brittany nodded slowly. "I think so." Not satisfied with this answer, she rephrased it. "Yeah, it was."

"That's what I thought. And... that kind of thing can't just be repeated with anyone," Santana continued. "It is definitely _not _going to happen with her." She scanned her features, making sure she really got it. "Ever," she added for emphasis. "You have my word on that."

Brittany waited a second, absorbing this. She met Santana's eyes and said simply, "Okay. I believe you."

Emboldened by this seemingly easy success, Santana decided to press ahead. "But I also feel like I should make it clear that both of them are... sort of part of my life now. And as cheesy as it sounds, I think they always will be." Now she checked to make sure she hadn't gone too far.

But Brittany looked, if anything, slightly guilty. "I know that," she said. "And it _doesn't _sound cheesy. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you had to choose, I never meant for that to happen. On the way back earlier, I was thinking about it all, about how crazy I've been acting... And actually, I already apologized to Rachel, when I got here."

"You did?" Santana said, surprised.

"Yeah. And she said she was sorry too. And then she hugged me... for like, a really long time. It was weird."

Smiling, Santana muttered, "Yeah, she does that."

"But I guess I had it coming." Brittany sighed. "So, I promise to try not to be weird about that whole thing anymore." She paused, then couldn't help adding, "But after that creepy thing you said about feet, I am however going to require the two of you to wear shoes around each other at all times."

Santana laughed, but with a sense of relief. "Fair enough," she agreed.

There was a brief silence, and Brittany added, "I'm really, really glad that you have other people you're close to now, besides just me. I _am_," she insisted. "I always wanted that for you, you know. I knew if other people could see how awesome you are deep down, they would love you as much as I do. I guess I just got scared that I was losing you."

"_Never_," Santana said earnestly, reaching forward to put her hand on Brittany's knee for emphasis. "And even though they're my best friends? You're my best friend, _and _my girlfriend," she teased her. "So you'll always rank higher."

"Really?" Brittany seemed to enjoy this idea. "Maybe we could make a chart or something, to hang in the living room. Just so they don't forget."

Amused, Santana laughed and nodded a little, but then the meaning of the words sank in. The smile faded from her face. "Wait..." she said, tentative. "Does that mean you're staying? For _good_?"

Brittany bit her lower lip, delaying the answer, even though it was clear she already knew what it was. "Yeah. For good."

Overwhelmed by all the emotions that rushed at her upon hearing this long-awaited confirmation, Santana found herself standing up, stepping down onto the sidewalk. She wrung her hands together, moving out a little toward the street and then turning around.

"Where are you going?" Brittany asked, laughing. She stood up and came down to join her.

"I don't know, I just need to..." Her words trailed off, distracted. She looked at her again, wanting to make certain. "Britt, are you really sure? You're not gonna change your mind?"

Brittany reached forward and grasped her hands, momentarily stilling her. "I'm sure," she said.

Santana drew in a shaky breath, the sudden energy flooding through her making her want to take off running down the street, shouting her news to everyone, in both English and Spanish. But Brittany's grip was strong, and she stared down at their linked hands, processing this news, trying to accept it. After a few seconds, she raised Brittany's hands up to her lips, delivering one soft, delicate kiss to the top of her left ring finger. Then she met her eyes, feeling her face heat up at what she'd done. From the way Brittany was looking at her, she hadn't missed the meaning.

In a sudden burst of magnanimity, Santana said, "We can live on that farm."

"What?"

"That farm you're supposed to inherit from your uncle, in Ohio. We could live there... I could be down with that. I mean, if that's what you want. Or we could stay there in the summers, someday. Who knows, maybe I could even get to like the goats?"

Brittany couldn't help laughing. "I don't know about that," she said skeptically. "But... it means so much to me, that you would even try it."

"I'm just saying... we don't have to stay here in the city forever. And obviously, when we're both rich and famous, we can have houses all over the world," she grinned at her.

"Oh, speaking of places to live." Brittany's face took on a secretive glow. "I almost forgot. When I told Mr. Bloom that I changed my mind, and I couldn't go on his safari road trip with him? He was kinda disappointed at first... But when I told him why, and about us? He was so cool about it. He kept comparing us to all these couples in literature and history and stuff. And I had no idea what he was talking about, but it was still sweet. Anyway, he made us an offer. Since he isn't coming back until September, he said that if we wanted, we could house sit for him, and stay at his place all summer."

"Really?"

"Yeah, see?" To illustrate her point, Brittany showed her the key. "And I think it could really work, because we'd still be close, you know, just right next door. But we'd have more space of our own. We could walk around naked. I mean, more than we already do. And without the judgmental stares." As if realizing Santana hadn't agreed yet, she suddenly looked unsure. "What do you think?"

"I think..." she smiled, pulling Brittany even closer. "It sounds _perfect_. And oh my God, there's so much free booze in there."

Brittany laughed. "Yeah," she agreed. "I figured you'd like that."

A brief silence followed this remark, and their eyes met. Simultaneously, with shared intent, they both moved forward. Santana took a fraction of a second to nuzzle Brittany's lips with her own, drawing out the beginning of this kiss that meant so much. But Brittany was hungrier for more contact, and she pressed closer, drawing Santana forward by the hips.

Suddenly, though, she froze and broke the kiss before it could even get started, pulling back slightly as she stared down at the space between them. "Okay, _that's _never happened before," she said, raising her eyebrows. "Not that I'm complaining, but..."

"Oh." Santana laughed, a little embarrassed, and reached down to pull the Rubik's cube out of her jacket pocket. "Don't get too excited, it's just this. Now we can finish it, together."

Brittany took the cube, surprised. "Wait, is this mine? How did you get this?"

"The man at the library gave it to me," she said. Then, hoping the lie wasn't too obvious, she added, "I guess he just really wanted me to have it."

"Oh my God, you met Albert?" Brittany's eyes lit up. "Isn't he hilarious? I was thinking maybe we could invite him over for dinner sometime."

"_Yeah_," Santana said with faux-enthusiasm, wincing. "Maybe!"

Brittany turned the cube over in her hands, examining her work. "Actually, Albert's one of the reasons that I decided to stay." Quickly, she added, "I mean, obviously, you're like ninety-nine percent of the reason. But he really got me thinking about things."

Mulling this over, Santana came up blank. "Okay... I know I probably shouldn't ask, but _how_, exactly?" She waited, not entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer.

She considered. "It's just that, I don't know, I love Lima. I do. It's where my family is, and it's always gonna feel like home. But the thing about Lima is that... I'm pretty much the weirdest person there."

"Brittany," Santana interjected, feeling like she should argue this point.

"No, it's okay, it's just the truth," she went on. "And I mean, it's not necessarily a bad thing. I like being different. But... it can be kind of lonely sometimes. And also kind of boring, if I'm being honest. But here?" She gestured around, indicating not just their neighborhood or Brooklyn, but the city itself. "There are so many fascinating people in New York. It's like, everyday I meet someone who totally makes me rethink everything I ever believed about reality and the space-time continuum. And yeah, some of them are probably crazy, but to me that makes them even more interesting."

Santana laughed a little, realizing how true this was.

Pausing, Brittany seemed to be searching for the right words. "I guess I just realized that I didn't want to leave all that behind. I know it sounds strange, but I sort of think... I fit in here, because _nobody _fits in here. There are so many different kinds of people, from all over the world. And I know most of them are always in a hurry, and a lot of them are mean to me. And I know there's bad stuff here, too." She lowered her voice, seeming unsure about voicing the next part. "What happened last night was really, really scary."

Santana stared down, acknowledging this with a soft, "I know."

Brittany continued, in a contemplative tone. "But scary things can happen in Ohio too. And where else but New York am I gonna meet people like Pete, or like Rhonda, or the Korean lady with the laser rats? Definitely not in Lima. I love those people," she said with simple sincerity. "I love talking to them and hearing their loony but sometimes eerily genius theories about the world. I wish I could make a movie about each one of them. And I think it means a lot to them, to have someone actually listen, someone who's not trying to get them into a straitjacket." She stopped, uncertain. "Does any of that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense," Santana assured her. "I'm just so happy you finally figured all this out." She regarded her with a sense of enchantment, wondering why she seemed to be the only person in the world who could truly see what a sensitive, extraordinary spirit Brittany had. "And listen," she went on. "You are _going _to apply to that film school. And if you don't get into that one, you'll get into another one. We won't stop until we make it happen." A thought occurred to her. "Who knows, maybe NYADA could use a filmmaking department?" Coyly, she added, "I got in, by the way."

"What? Oh my God!" Brittany exclaimed, delighted. She pulled her into a hug, whispering over her shoulder. "I knew you would."

Santana wrapped her arms around her and breathed in her scent, nestling into her neck, reveling in the feeling of being held so closely by someone she'd nearly lost. She didn't want to let go. Clearly Brittany didn't either. Even when they'd pulled apart, she seemed reluctant to drop her arms. She gazed down at Santana with such a potent mixture of pride and love that the sensation of it was almost palpable, like a ray of sunshine. Santana felt herself basking in the warmth of it. But then something flickered across Brittany's features, something that marred the simplicity of the moment. Something deeper, more complicated.

Knowing she should probably ignore it, Santana nevertheless felt compelled to ask, "Is everything all right?"

Brittany waited a second before replying. "It's just... there's something else I have to tell you."

"Oh." Santana swallowed nervously, already convinced it couldn't be good. "Okay." In the back of her mind, hadn't she known this was all working out a little too well? There had to be _something _lurking in the shadows.

But now that she'd announced her intent, Brittany didn't seem to know how to start. She looked to be trying to gather courage from some inner reserve, which made Santana even more anxious.

Haltingly, she finally spoke. "I don't really know how to say this with words. You know how I feel about words. But... I'm just gonna do my best, because you need to hear it. Because I realized something today. I realized you were right."

Brittany stopped again, because now suddenly there were tears in her eyes, to Santana's alarm. But before she could tell her to stop, that whatever it was, she didn't need to say it, Brittany pressed on. "You were right, when you said last summer that being in love with somebody is different than just loving them. It is. It's totally different." Her voice seemed to catch, and she tried to get it under control. "And now I know that it is, because when you're in love with someone and you think about them having feelings for someone else... like, _real _feelings, not just sex feelings? It makes you want to kill somebody." She paused, still fighting against the emotion. "And I know that's not all that being in love is. I know that obviously there's more to it than just homicidal rage. So much more. But that's the part that made me realize..." Here she met Santana's eyes. "That I'm in love with you. I've _always _been in love with you. Santana, I am so, so insanely in love with you."

Halfway through this speech Santana had begun to understand, with a sense of startled, heartwrenching amazement, where it was going. But now during this last part, hearing the words she'd waited so long to hear, the words she'd been terrified she would never hear, she quickly looked down at the ground, her chin trembling, and squeezed her eyes shut tight while the meaning washed over her. It was no use, though, the tears were falling anyway. There was no chance in hell she could hold them back, and she didn't really want to. She'd just been given the one thing she'd wanted, the one thing she'd _needed_, more than anything else in the world. The simple truth was that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never, ever experience another moment like this one.

She drew in a shaky breath and looked back up, somehow relieved to see that at least Brittany's tears hadn't stopped either. Her voice wavering in spite of her efforts, she added, "I'm so in love with you too. And I'm so sorry I tried to hide it for so long." With urgent emotion, she added, "Britt, I will _never _make you feel like that again. I promise."

Brittany sniffled, nodding, and by mutual impulse, the two of them leaned together, balancing their foreheads against each other. Brittany's hands came up to caress Santana's face, to cup her cheeks as they pressed themselves together.

"And, um, just so we're clear," Santana whispered, hovering so close to her lips, but still not quite touching. "This means no more sampling other fruit, right? We can stick with strawberries now?"

"Yeah." Brittany smiled as she nuzzled their noses together. "I think we've sampled enough."

Santana tilted her head just slightly, angling into the kiss, into the warm, enveloping silkiness of Brittany's lips, drawing her in, feeling her pulse quicken. For the very first time in her life she was being kissed by someone she knew was in love with her.

But then, once again, they were forced to break apart too early when a wolf whistle came from across the street, shattering their absorption. "Hey, lezzies!" boomed a young Brooklyn-accented guy passing by on the opposite sidewalk, his voice projecting more enjoyment than malice. "Why don't you get a room?"

Turning in his direction, Santana prepared for a verbal smackdown. But before she could properly get her rage on, Brittany responded. "Oh, hey!" she called back to the guy, her voice sounding pleasant, like she was greeting an old friend. "Why don't you go fuck yourself?"

Santana gasped and laughed at the same time. "_Brittany_!" She gazed at her with a mixture of shock and pride, hardly able to believe what she'd just heard. The guy continued on his way with a mild dismissive gesture, as if he'd expected nothing less.

Brittany smiled back at her, pleased but self-conscious, and gave a tiny shrug. "I think I'm a real New Yorker now," she said softly.

Grinning, already pushing up toward her once again to resume their broken kiss, Santana whispered, "I think you are."

This time, there were no interruptions. They melted together, taking their time, re-learning every detail as though this were the first time they'd ever done this. In a way, it felt like it was. Everything was different now. Santana raised herself onto her tiptoes, kissing with renewed passion. She wondered if they could possibly wait until tonight before they fell into bed together. It didn't seem likely.

She gave a short squeal of delight as Brittany suddenly, without warning, dipped her backwards. The neighborhood tilted against her vision in a dizzying whirl, their own building rising up solid and familiar against the dying sun, at the top of which she thought she could just make out the silhouettes of two figures leaning over the ledge of the roof, probably trying their hardest not to cheer out loud.

But then she closed her eyes against all of it, letting the world drop away into darkness as Brittany kissed her again.


	14. Matchmakers Preview

I know what you're thinking. "Why did I just get a story alert for this fic? Wasn't it completed two years ago? Do people still write Glee fic? Did I just go back in time?"

Alas, you did not. But somehow, my writing muse did, and I've started a sequel to this story. Since it stems directly from this one, and takes place just a few months after this story ends, I decided to add a sneak preview here so that all the people who had this fic on "story follow" (many more than the number who have me on "author follow") would get the alert. Maybe most of you would rather read a 50 Shades/Fox News mash-up than venture back into the world of Glee. Maybe you left it years ago and will never look back. I get that! I thought I had, too. But just in case anyone still wants to catch up with my versions, I thought I'd let you know I was starting a new one. Below I'll post a short snippet from the beginning of the chapter so I'm not breaking FF rules about adding author's notes, or you can just go directly to the fic itself by clicking back out to my profile. It's called Matchmakers, and that's where the rest of the author's note is as well.

Thanks!

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><p><strong>Matchmakers Preview<strong>

**Chapter 1**

Coffee. _Check_. Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. _Check_. Vase. _Check_. Flower...

Whoops, she'd almost forgotten the flower. Brittany turned around and drew a single yellow rose from the display on the kitchen table, snipped the end of it with a pair of scissors from Mr. Bloom's cluttered junk drawer, and then slid it into the small, slender vase, just behind the plate of Belgian waffles. She moved the coffee cup and saucer an inch to the left, then stood back a bit to survey the breakfast tray with a slight smile of anticipation, hands clasped under her chin. _Perfect_.

Careful to keep it balanced, she lifted the tray and carried it out of the kitchen, toward the master bedroom, being extra cautious to watch her step in the dim lighting. Mr. Bloom's apartment was darker than theirs, the living room paneled in varnished maple bookshelves overflowing with his lifetime's worth of bibliomania. The drapes were likewise heavy and thick, perfect for a man who probably spent a good deal of his time hungover. When they were closed, even at the brightest part of the morning, they left the room in dim shadow, which also worked out well for convincing their talkative feathered friend that it wasn't really time to get up yet. Brittany tiptoed past the sheet-draped bird cage, hoping not to hear any muttered words about Tony Awards or man jugs. She paused, wincing, at a slight noise like feathers ruffling, but then continued on when there was nothing else.

Slipping into the dark, quiet bedroom, she tiptoed across the bare floor and set the tray gently down on the bedside table. Slowly, without making a sound, she crossed to the window and drew the drapes back, not all the way, just enough to let in a thin spear of morning light across the quilt. Then she moved over to the bed and sank down onto it in a sitting position, crossing her legs underneath her, getting comfortable, and preparing to indulge in one of her favorite morning rituals... watching Santana wake up.

(continued under the title _Matchmakers_)


End file.
